


marry me home

by boycoffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (flip! i said flip!), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Banter, Developing Relationship, Domesticity, Erotic Massage, Flirting, Gender Issues, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mild Angst, Moving In Together, Murder, Online Relationship, Podfic & Podficced Works, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Romance, Service-Oriented Hannibal, Shrike Victims, Sugar Daddy Hannibal Lecter, Switch Hannibal, Switch Will, Trans Will Graham, alana delightedly watching from the sidelines as these two doorknobs figure themselves out, beneath will's gruff exterior beats the heart of a hopeless romantic, hey gorgeous do you need a greencard because my borders are wide open, hopeless being the operative word but by GOD does he try, poverty among america's teaching professionals is a serious problem and hannibal is the solution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-09-14 08:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16909545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boycoffin/pseuds/boycoffin
Summary: The internet is full of fascinating, terrible suggestions for how to solve your problems. Will finds himself behind on too many payments to count, and makes an unusual deal. Honestly, this guy seems pretty normal—save for his interest in Will, of course. And statistically speaking, you're more likely to be eaten by a shark than marry a serial killer by mistake.What's the worst that could happen?





	1. Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/gifts).



> sometimes people come into your life at precisely the right moment, and that's why this story exists. to my will; thank you for existing. broken things can come together into something better than before.  
> —  
> here's the audio for this chapter!  
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1zhBHne-U8hsd2J3Rj2o1eWoFG2uxvRAg)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/769952/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20one.mp3)

The thing is, Will was in a lot of debt.

That's a terrible way to start an anecdote, much less a story. Crushing financial terror, generally speaking, is not the springboard to a lighthearted romp of a tale. But that's where it began: He was drowning in bills. There. That was the truth of it, however embarrassing, however soul-grindingly _common_ it was, that's the way it was.

When you're broke and feel helpless to do anything about it, a certain amount of desperate late-night Googling occurs. And he found this post. And he found this site. This… _service_. Probably a scam, right? _Absolutely_ a scam. He was grateful for his cynicism, grateful that he didn't just dive headlong after any lead that might offer some relief from his troubles.

He shut his laptop and went to bed.

At 2:03AM, he opened his laptop again, and searched.

_Constance, 21, model._

_Elena, 36, mathematician._

_Seyi, 27, software developer._

Hmm.

Will didn't think too hard about any of this. It was just idle curiosity, wasn't it? Something to take his mind off of the burdens weighing him down. It wasn't too much of a stretch to convince himself that he'd clicked the wrong part of the navigation bar.

_Stefan, 25, clothing designer._ Terribly thin, this one.

_Norberto, 38, former Olympian._ Kind eyes. Oh, but he doesn't like dogs.

Will shut his laptop again. This was ridiculous. He turned out the light, and punched his pillows into shape, and tried to forget about it.

The following morning as he waited for his toast:

_Bill, 43, investor._ Too stuffy-looking.

_Vladimir, 35, video game designer._ Wait, no, he's only looking for women. Pity.

(Will determinedly avoided putting too much thought into this.)

_Stuart, 24, unemployed._ Interesting facial tattoos. Will even knew what a few of them meant.

Pass.

_Corbin, 31, artist._ Maybe.

_Tomas, 19, student._ That's a strong no.

_Hannibal, 50, psychiatrist._

The toast popped up, but Will left it there.

This guy stood out. Impeccably dressed, backdrop of fine rooms and pleasant spaces. These were less like selfies and more like professional portraits, and there was an intriguing sort of oddness about his features, like he'd been pieced together from memory. _Interests include: art history, sculpture, medical antiques, entertaining, international travel, classical music, drawing, culinary arts._

Way out of his league, Will knew. Then again, context was key: was _anyone_ out of his league, if they were looking for someone to marry them for a green card?

Why hadn't anyone snatched him up yet? There in the side of his profile was the little symbol Will had only seen show up a handful of times, in his hours of clicking around, the one that indicated _spares no expense_.

By the time Will could spare a thought for his toast, it had gone cold.

* * *

Will holed up in his office, with its unshakable, government-funded high-speed internet access, and waited for the call to come through. No one would suspect he was doing anything untoward; Professor Graham was known for his somewhat abrasive nature and a tendency to keep unpredictable office hours, and it's not as if he didn't make Skype calls to colleagues overseas. The long-distance consult was something everyone on the faculty had to deal with, now and again.

Even so, he shouldn't be doing this at work. He shouldn't be doing this _at all_ , but what's the worst that could happen? It was just a test. Just to see. If Will felt horrible or got a bad vibe, he'd apologize and say he'd had second thoughts. It's not like any agreements had been made. This was just to talk.

They'd chatted a bit over the past week, through the messenger client on the site. Hannibal _(50, psychiatrist)_ Lecter had proven himself to be as well-spoken as Will had assumed he would be, which some people would consider to be a good sign. Will, naturally suspicious and already kicking himself for indulging in this nonsensical fantasy solution for as long as he had, took it as a sign that another shoe was going to drop.

The program bleeped at him. Will let it make a few additional noises before he picked up, and the view of his potential suitor flared into life.

He was in one of the rooms from the photos, and the quality of light indicated that there was a cheerful fire in the hearth, just out of shot. Faint early-morning sunlight made its way in, diluted by clouds, perhaps, or half-drawn curtains. He was wearing a beautiful dark blue suit, with crimson accents. Everything, down to the desk lamp, looked extravagantly expensive.

'Good morning, Will,' said Hannibal.

Will felt his breath catch in his chest, at the sound of his voice. 'Good morning, Dr Lecter.' He tried to steady his nerves. 'Tell me again why you want to do this.'

'Straightforward, aren't you?'

'I prefer to lay all my cards on the table, yes. Prevarication leaves too much room for error.'

Hannibal smiled, and it was that same barely-there expression from his profile picture. A ghost of approval, if anything. 'You speak precisely as you write.'

'So do you.'

'I've barely said a word.'

'Neither have I.' Will consciously tried to relax. 'Why go about things this way, why marriage? You seem to have plenty of other methods at your disposal.'

'I would prefer to have a place to land,' said Hannibal.

'I'm not a place.'

'Someone to look forward to, then.'

Will sat up a bit straighter in his chair. 'I'm not the most accommodating person.'

Hannibal's fingers were laced together against the edge of his desk, half-out of frame. 'And yet you chose to go about things this way, yourself.'

'I'm broke,' said Will, flatly. 'And I'm stuck in a rut. I don't know if that's some kind of crisis, or what, but at this point, I'm open to anything.'

There was a faint flicker of Hannibal's expression. 'I'll hold you to that.'

'You'll do no such thing,' said Will, and he realized he sounded a little teasing. Where did that come from? God, what was he doing? It was two o'clock in the morning, he should be home and asleep, not drinking coffee out of the same mug from this morning and trying to tamp down equal parts shame, anxiety, and a thrilling sense of danger.

Hannibal let him win, for the time being. 'You're right. You clearly have the upper hand.'

'Why me?' Will pressed. 'Surely you get plenty of hits. Good bones, for the people hoping for a little genetic material; educated, sharp dresser. You look like you inherited millions, or have a _title_ or something.'

'Both,' said Hannibal, and Will had made the mistake of taking a drink of his coffee, which he nearly spluttered over now.

'Say again?'

'I do have a title,' Hannibal admitted, 'though it does me little good. And an inheritance, which has served me far more, but I prefer to earn my own keep.'

Will thought back on the offer Hannibal had made, a few days before they'd agreed to speak (as it were) face-to-face. The number of zeroes had made Will feel a little dizzy. 'You could say that, yeah.' He shook his head. 'There's _got_ to be a catch. What is it?'

'A catch?' Hannibal echoed, seeming amused. 'Other than yourself?'

Will opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came to him for a long moment, so he shut it again. 'That's…' he tried, and failed. 'But seriously, what is it, some kind of terrifying contagion? Do you… I don't know, snore? Vape?'

'None of the above.'

'You're obviously tidy, so hoarding is low on the list of potential disasters.'

'You're right.'

He wasn't built like a layabout, either, though Will was hardly going to mention that. He didn't want to hint at how long he'd lingered over the one shirtless photo on Hannibal's profile, how Will had admired (not thinking too much about it, of course) his swimmer's build.

'Are you,' Will grasped for something that could potentially turn people off of such an amazing find, 'um. Aggressively vegan?'

Hannibal seemed startled into a grin. 'Far from it.'

'Clingy?'

'When I like someone, I make certain to let them know.'

Hmm. That was kind of a non-answer, but Will let it go for the time being. He tried to make light of it, but he genuinely wanted to know, 'So what's _wrong_ with you, exactly?'

Hannibal didn't seem annoyed—if anything, he seemed even more pleased with Will than before. 'You don't mince words, do you?'

'I think I'll leave the mincing to you, Mr Culinary Arts.'

'If you like. The fact of the matter is, I'm very particular in my tastes.'

Will let that sit for a moment. 'You're particular.'

'Yes.'

'In your tastes.'

'That's what I said.'

'And _yet_ ,' said Will, sitting back in his chair, enjoying himself perhaps a little too much, 'you slapped up a profile on MarryMeHome and waved your assets around like a piece of meat. It's not even a dating site, it's a damn… auction block.'

Hannibal gave him a considering look. 'You seemed rather taken with my assets, Will. Have you changed your mind?' And his arm moved, as if preparing to close the tab.

'No! No,' said Will, hastily. It was obvious how invested he was, and he felt a little pathetic about it, but Hannibal didn't seem to be complaining, did he? 'I just… sorry. I'm not the best at this kind of thing.'

'What kind of thing?' said Hannibal.

Will pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses, then let the frames settle back into place. 'The, uh. Interpersonal kind.'

'An odd pursuit, then, online shopping for a spouse.'

'I wasn't shopping for a _spouse_ ,' said Will, self-conscious and a little ashamed. He looked down at his hands. 'Anyway, if you're so particular, why waste your time on me? Isn't it obvious that I'm a bad lead? I'm already offending you.'

'You wouldn't be contractually obligated to socialize with me, Will,' Hannibal pointed out. 'After a point.'

Will shook his head, but looked back at him again. 'Yeah, but… who draws up the contract? It's not a rubber-stamp sort of affair, everybody needs a different outcome, beyond the obvious citizenship angle. You're the one with the money.'

'You're the one willing to bring me in out of the cold. In my estimation, you're in far better position to dictate the terms.'

'Says the guy offering…' Will couldn't even bring himself to say the amount. 'A lot. Hell of a lot.' He swallowed. 'I'm just some reclusive asshole with a lot of malingering student loans and medical bills and a mortgage to pay down.'

'Yet you've carried out our conversations from the perspective of someone who assumes we'll be cohabitating,' Hannibal noted. 'Why else would you wonder if I snore?'

Will didn't have a good answer for that. An answer, sure, but it did anything but make him look good. He pressed on, regardless, almost hoping he could sabotage himself so badly that he'd have to back out, and could write this off as a stupid, desperate mistake, and forget all about how Hannibal's peculiar accent shaped his name from thousands of miles away.

'Maybe I want someone to look forward to, myself.'

* * *

In general, airports are unpleasant. If you could feel emotions radiating off of hundreds of strangers, while surrounded by nearly-incomprehensible loudspeaker announcements and the clash of dozens of conversations overlapping, as lights flashed and people pushed past you and little plastic suitcase wheels thudded along the grooves in the tiled floor, as children threw tantrums and luggage carts veered ahead of you, and the air pressure sucked and boomed against your eardrums with every fresh takeoff and landing, _unpleasant_ was putting it mildly.

But Will was used to it by now, and he could endure it, because before the sun ducked under the horizon, his fiancé would arrive.

A couple of days before, as Hannibal took a cab to the first of many airports, he had teasingly sent Will the message, _How will I spot you?_

_I'll be the one with a long-stemmed rose held between my teeth_ , Will had replied. _And how will I know it's you?_ He'd watched the little ellipsis flicker to and fro as Hannibal composed his response:

_We'll match._

Will had received updates throughout the journey, this-or-that flight was delayed, an interesting conversation overheard in an airport lounge, a photo of the sunset out of an enormous plate-glass window overlooking an empty expanse of tarmac.

_Are you nervous?_ Hannibal had asked him.

_Me, nervous? You must have mistaken me for somebody else._

Before boarding the final flight, Hannibal replied, _I'll know you when I see you_ , signed with a rose emoji.

Will couldn't stop smiling for a long time.

But that was hours ago, and here he was, pacing around the semi-deserted baggage claim, near the belts that were meant to carry the luggage of Hannibal's flight. Will had arrived obscenely early, for no good reason at all. He'd even bought a rose on his way to the airport, a little three-dollar blossom with its petals still tightly closed, smelling faintly of floral preservative and held in its crinkly plastic sleeve by a rubber band.

What the hell was he doing with his life?

There was money in the bank, and more to come. You had to space it out to avert suspicion, make little deposits here and there, but the first payment alone had been enough to make Will wonder when he was going to wake up from this and find himself right where he'd started.

And it's not as if he was only doing it for the money. The nature of their online conversations, timed around their opposing schedules, meant that Will was often talking late into the night, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes and putting off sleep for just another hour, just a little longer. Tiredness, and the emotional state that comes of having already endured a full day of social expectations and work and everyday woes, meant that Will was even less likely than usual to hold his tongue, and Hannibal did nothing to discourage him from speaking his mind. Hannibal would often tease him for his forthrightness, though, _and how did that make you feel? Don't be afraid to delve._ And Will would laugh, but he wouldn't follow through.

Well. Wouldn't usually.

There came a point when his next conversation with Hannibal was what got Will through the day. They'd decided early on that if this was going to carry on to some sort of goal, they had to commit wholeheartedly to the enterprise, for their mutual benefit. After all, why not embrace the fact that they now had this opportunity? To build a life without the burden of needing it to work out in the end—that was a luxury Will had never experienced, before. If things imploded, if they couldn't stand one another in person, so be it; they would have already gotten what they'd bargained for. So why not see it as a game, as a challenge? What was stopping them?

Will had never lived with someone he genuinely liked, before. Back in his twenties he'd had roommates off and on, and they'd develop that sort of functional friendship where you could borrow twenty bucks or go out for a drink, but once they moved or you moved, there wasn't much of a reason to stay in touch. Relationships of proximity seemed to be a recurring theme in Will's life, and now here he was, six months since a night of desperate Googling, about to enter into a marriage of convenience.

At least he was consistent.

Beyond the opening in the wall, a motor fired up, and the luggage belts began to move. Over the past half-hour or so, little groups of people had gathered here and there, looking at the schedule boards or sitting in the long line of chairs with their shared armrests. Will had enjoyed being there alone, in this cavernous, liminal space, waiting for his future to arrive. But now there was noise and movement and discomfort; Will soothed himself with the thought that he'd have Hannibal to himself on the drive home, and then they would be home, together.

Will had asked Hannibal, when their agreement was still in its infancy, whether he was going to find a place of his own. He was, Hannibal told him, but not urgently. Perhaps they might find out what it was like to live under the same roof? Just to see. And Will had said that was fine (cautioning him about the dogs all the while), and they'd agreed that they would give it at least a month. If one or the other found his companion intolerable, Hannibal would find a nice hotel or a rental in the city somewhere while he looked for a more permanent residence, and Will would go back to sleeping in the front room and thinking about the way Hannibal's eyes had always lit up when Will greeted him on their morning call.

Will had spent the past few weeks trying to make the house presentable, and a little more normal. Furniture got rearranged, the chimney repaired so you could actually build a fire instead of rely on a space heater that whiffed of dog hair, and he finally replaced the cheap old silverware like he'd been meaning to for ages. For the first time, he chose a bedroom, and tried to get used to sleeping in there. When hypervigilance kept him up nights, he would imagine that Hannibal was in the next room. Will could think of the rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of his breathing, the faint flicker of movement beneath his eyelids as he dreamed. Only then could Will fall asleep.

(Now and then, he'd imagine that Hannibal was not in the next room, but next to him, instead. Those were the nights he slept best, his mind untroubled.)

He didn't know if this would work, but that wasn't the point. The point was to see if it _could_. And if it didn't, well, no harm done, right? A lot of harm could be done, Will knew, but he hoped there wouldn't be. If they didn't get along—hell, even if they drove each other up the wall—it was still possible to part ways amicably, having achieved what they initially set out to do.

But Will had grown accustomed to having someone to look forward to, and the thought of eventually _not_ having one again burned like acid at the back of his throat.

A kid from one of the clusters of waiting people broke away and sprinted across the room, shouting an excited welcome to someone, effectively heralding the arrival of the passengers. Will felt suddenly tense, and had the urge to check whether he looked all right, even though he must look exactly the same as he had when he'd left the house a few hours before. He'd changed out of his teaching clothes and into something a little nicer, despite the fact that Hannibal had nearly always seen him in a rumpled state before.

He held the rose in its plastic sleeve, the stem warmed by the time spent in his hand, and he felt incredibly foolish about it. Half the time he didn't know if Hannibal was joking, or just humoring him, or what. They'd logged hours of meandering conversations, on topics ranging from hospital horror stories (Hannibal had been a surgeon, once) to jazz vocalists (that was Will's contribution) to the care and keeping of herbs on a kitchen windowsill. They'd playfully bicker about the other's taste in music and films. Will would wonder about how long it took Hannibal to get ready in the morning, and Hannibal would imply that Will slept in his clothes. Will told him, once, that he'd seen an abysmal production of _Don Giovanni,_ and Hannibal had proceeded to enthuse (as much as he ever enthused) about other operas that might be better suited to Will's tastes.

But there were the calls when Will had barely slept the night before, when he was snappish and aggressively tactless. There were some calls that Hannibal missed, and he would give vague excuses for his absence, _I'm sorry, Will, something desperately required my attention_ , and Will would bite his tongue against the desire to say _I desperately require your attention, too._

But then there were times when Will would be up all night grading papers, and he'd hear the little sound that indicated Hannibal had logged on, and he would click out of his student's terrible explanation of directional claw marks on an assailant's back and would type in the chat window, _You're up early_ , and Hannibal would say, _You're up late,_ and they'd put off their responsibilities for a while.

Will didn't know if Hannibal had caught on, but surely he must have by now. There was no other word for how they spoke to each other: it was near-constant flirting, finding each other's buttons and pushing them at every opportunity. Will hadn't anticipated that. He hadn't gone looking for someone to want, someone to (perhaps, but let's not think too hard about this) need. But there he was.

And Will knew that there were a lot of things left to discuss. They'd danced around the idea of what living together would mean, even for an experimental period, and Hannibal had made it clear that Will would have the final decision regarding anything that might happen between them. _I haven't paid for your company, Will. I've rewarded you as best I can for a favor, that's all._ Will could think of a lot of other ways Hannibal might reward him, but that's where things hit a snag.

They would flirt, up to a point. Nothing became overtly sexual, and both of them seemed fine with that so far—but Will hoped that maybe Hannibal had found himself unable to sleep, some nights, just like Will had, and found his thoughts drifting to Will, just as Will's were drawn magnetically back to Hannibal, time and again.

If things ever did reach that point between them, it would come with its own troubles. Explaining scars, explaining _himself_. Or that hesitant side-stepping around it and neither one saying, all the while worrying that Will wasn't what he'd wanted, after all.

But this was a game. A challenge. They both wanted to know what might happen.

Will caught sight of Hannibal in the crowd, and felt his pulse thunder in his throat, apprehension fighting for dominance against elation and relief. Hannibal was _real_. He was here, now, at last, and Will could now live in a world where he'd go home to him, could introduce him, _this is my fiancé,_ could occupy the same space and breathe the same air, catch scent of him, touch him, know him in a way that screens and words couldn't wholly reach.

He'd tried to rehearse what he was going to say. In the mirror of the bathroom cabinet, he practiced. While folding the laundry, taking the dogs out, waiting at stoplights, he tried out and rejected countless lines. _Hey, you._ Coy and perhaps with one eyebrow? No, that wasn't it. _Welcome home_. Trite and corny, he deserved better than that. _Fancy meeting you here._ Ugh, what? No. _Come here often?_ God, they just got worse and worse. Better to not say anything at all. Maybe he could just nod, just smile. Never have to think of something clever to say for as long as he lived, because nothing (now that the moment had arrived) would be good enough.

Hannibal reached him, and Will froze completely.

The look on his face, God, Will couldn't even describe it if he tried. He wasn't just glad to have located him, it was more like Hannibal was glad to have _found_ him.

'Will,' said Hannibal, with such fondness that Will couldn't breathe. Hannibal tucked a little origami rose into the buttonhole of Will's jacket.

'You caught me,' said Will, stupidly, without thinking, because thinking wasn't important at the moment, not in the wake of how Hannibal lifted a hand to gently cup Will's jaw and all the world seemed to go quiet around them and leave them in peace.

'So have you,' said Hannibal, and kissed him.

And Hannibal didn't seem to mind the noise of yearning and surprise Will made in the back of his throat, he just gathered him close as Will melted against him, basking in his presence, the _reality_ of him. Will had enough presence of mind not to clutch at him or make a scene, or do anything that might lead Hannibal to regret having kissed him at all—but those concerns were merely running in the background. A majority of Will's mind, and indeed his entire self, was concerned with capturing this moment so it couldn't get away from him, relishing it, feeling, as always, the conviction that it would slip through his fingers and disappear.

He felt the stem of the rose snap between them, still in his hand, and the kiss ended shortly thereafter.

'Oh,' said Will, barely audible, on the end of a breath.

'I've not been here for five minutes,' said Hannibal, with a little smile, 'and I'm already breaking things. Haven't I warned you I'm terrible company?'

'I always disagree with you,' Will reminded him. He felt light-headed, awash with hope. 'Guess we're getting a jump on the old-married-couple bickering.'

'I suppose we are.' They were still so close, and Hannibal inclined his head, their foreheads touching. 'Am I in the doghouse already, Will?'

That made him laugh a little, and Will moved back, shaking his head. 'Come on, let's get your bags. It's been a long trip, I bet you want to get home.'

Hannibal took his hand. 'More than you know.'


	2. Homeward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal tapped the back of Will's hand lightly with the rose. 'If you do ever find yourself in need of an alibi, I'm your man.'  
> 'Is that part of the package?'  
> 'It's part of the promise.'  
> Will felt like the air had been plucked from his lungs, for a moment. 'You aren't actually going to take any vows _seriously,_ are you?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [gdrive audio](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1gnpTT-Bf-4t3scFb8tKCFqEjtVZAj_5q)   
>  [filehosting audio](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/769953/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20two.mp3)

The air of the parking structure was blessedly cool, and sound was blurred enough by echoes-on-concrete that you couldn't make out distinct words in other people's conversations. Will and Hannibal handled a suitcase each, tucking them behind the seats of the truck; the sky was threatening rain, after all, and the luggage itself was far too nice to knock around in the truck bed anyway, in Will's opinion.

(God, that kiss. How do you have a conversation after an opener like that? Will was floundering, hoping Hannibal would know by now when to take the lead so Will wouldn't make a fool of himself. Not that he wasn't able to lead, just… not at the moment. Not _well_. He felt like he was completely out of his depth.)

Most of Hannibal's belongings had been shipped to the house, already, hence his packing light for so momentous a journey. Will hadn't opened any of the boxes, hadn't dared intrude. The man's whole _life_ was in there. And yes, Will might be some small, strange little part of that life, now, but he didn't want to leave his grubby fingerprints all over the better aspects of it.

With some of the first installment of his fee (it was weird to even think about it in those terms), Will had bought a bedroom set and a nice mattress, for the… not _guest_ bedroom, precisely. Will hoped Hannibal didn't see himself as only a guest. Second bedroom, then. That was the courteous thing to do, wasn't it, preparing a space for him? Better than assuming anything. Will shuddered to think how quickly assumptions could sour things, and didn't want to risk it.

Separate bedrooms. Two beds. Simple.

(That _kiss_. It was so easy, came so naturally, like that's how it had always been, like they'd existed within inches of each other for years and only had to reach out a little, just a little, to finally touch.)

He'd informed Hannibal of this ahead of time, of course. Weeks ago, when boxes started to arrive, Will had typed one early morning, _You know, there's a nice view from your window_ , and tried to be as casual as possible about the issue. Will reminded himself that he had the final say, and so whatever decisions he made about their shared living space was just… how it was.

Oh, he hadn't daydreamed about anything specific, of course. Not that he'd imagined the look on Hannibal's face if Will had left things as they usually were, bed visible from the front windows and from the door, clearly enough space for two, a cozy and immediate embrace you could fall right into.

Will had been giving the dogs additional training, hoping to mitigate what a non-dog-person might consider to be unpleasantness of any kind. They were already a well-behaved bunch, but they did tend to get excited when new people came by. He'd let them sniff around the boxes—not that much could be gleaned from them, after transatlantic shipping—and, though he felt silly about it, Will had been telling them about Hannibal, too. _He's nice, I think you'll like him. And he claims to be a good cook, I'm sure you'll find a way to mooch some chicken or something. He seems to have a soft spot for raggedy old mutts._

In the present, Will buckled in and said, 'It's not a long drive, might as well take the scenic route so you get a feel for the place. You game?'

Hannibal smiled. 'I'm at your mercy.'

As Will rolled down the window to feed the little ticket into the machine and get out of the parking decks, he said, nearly under his breath, 'Unfair.'

'Hmm?'

Will got his receipt from the machine and rolled the window back up, waiting for the bar to fully rise out of the way to let them through. 'You're really going to carry on like that, huh?'

Hannibal gave him an innocent look. 'I've no idea what you mean, Will.' A car pulled up behind them, but Will hadn't yet driven forward. 'I believe it's your move.'

'Speaking of moving,' said Will, as they proceeded onwards at last, 'how does it feel to be on the other side of the world?'

'Surprisingly comfortable. I enjoy a drastic change, now and again.'

Will smiled. 'Virginia's certainly a leap from Paris, I'll give you that. I couldn't do it, myself.' He suppressed a shudder. 'Just moving the furniture is enough to spook me.'

'You really needn't have, Will.'

'Well, I did, so suck it up.' They merged onto the highway. 'I wanted you to feel like the house was equally yours.'

'It isn't,' Hannibal reminded him.

'You're paying my mortgage.'

'Indirectly. What you decide to do with what I provide you is entirely under your control,' said Hannibal. 'Not mine.'

Will chuckled a little, mostly to himself, and at some unspoken element that he didn't quite want to bring up. 'Control is a tricky thing, isn't it? Who has what leverage, how much can they get away with?'

Hannibal considered this as he looked out of the window at the beginnings of rain, then said, 'Any control you allow me, I hope to have earned it.'

'God, you just… it never stops, does it?' Will sounded amused, rather than frustrated. 'Everything you say is loaded.'

He canted his head. 'We've spoken for nearly half the year. You hadn't noticed?'

'I don't know, I kind of…' Will made a vague gesture. 'I thought maybe it was part of the opening act, right? Something that locks in a captive audience.'

'You're hardly my captive, Will.' Hannibal still held the rose, now out of its crinkly wrapping, and he turned it a little between his fingers. 'If anything, I'm yours.'

'Mutual captivity's not for a little while yet,' said Will, avoiding any sort of declaration of his own.

'I don't consider marrying you to be a sentence.'

'You've only sat through the opening act, there's a lot you haven't seen yet.' Will took an exit that led them along a winding road through an old neighborhood, its little houses watched over by pecan trees. Rain dappled the windshield, _tap, tap, tap_. 'It's difficult to wake you up screaming from the other side of the globe, for instance.'

Will didn't look over at him, but he could hear the slight frown of concern in Hannibal's voice. 'Do you wake up screaming often?'

'No,' said Will automatically, then, 'yes. Okay, not as much as I did for a while. Comes and goes.'

'You need only have said.'

'Weird thing to say out of the blue.'

'I'm a psychiatrist, remember,' said Hannibal. 'Anything that might trouble you, I've likely encountered far worse.'

Will scoffed under his breath, turning the windshield wipers up an additional notch. 'Try me.'

Hannibal did.

'You know,' Will admitted, when Hannibal had finished the story, 'I'm actually a little impressed. Does doctor-patient confidentiality wear off if you cross too many time zones, or what?'

'He wasn't my patient at the time.' Hannibal seemed to be enjoying himself, or maybe Will was projecting. 'Your turn.'

'Oh, it's a game?'

'Wasn't it always?'

Will laughed. 'Fine, you asked for it. You know what I do for a living, right?'

'You're a teacher.'

'Yeah,' said Will, rolling his eyes. 'A fucking… _murder_ teacher. Didn't you ever look me up? Find the papers, or anything?'

'I never said I hadn't,' said Hannibal. 'But I'd prefer your side of things. You've looked me up, I assume?'

'Does setting your profile picture as my wallpaper count?' said Will, then added quickly, 'Not… that I did that.'

'I wouldn't mind if you had.'

'That was a joke.'

Hannibal had this way of simmering with amusement while sounding completely normal. Will sort of loved that. 'Was it the shirtless one?'

_'No.'_

'Ah,' said Hannibal. 'So it was.' He let Will stew for a few moments, then went on. 'I've read a number of your papers, as it happens. You take well to academic jargon, but with your own unique tonal quality to its delivery.'

'That's a nice way of saying I explain things like a normal person and then find-and-replace with buzzwords later,' said Will. 'Can't be professional all the time. I've read some of your papers, too, though my French was a little too rusty to pick up on any subtleties. I can have a conversation over coffee, sure, but frontal lobe anomalies don't typically come up.' Will caught himself smiling. 'I mean, they might _now_. How long did you teach DBT, by the way? Since we're talking shop.'

'I wouldn't say I taught it,' said Hannibal. 'I trained a few patients in a modified approach, and applied my own personal touches to the process. Often the formalized language of Linehan's original modality can seem a little… rigid, to a younger mind. Restricting one's behavior isn't the target; tolerance of reality is.'

'We're not great at tolerating reality in this country,' Will pointed out. 'We sort of just run around screaming, on fire, and try to find a reason why it isn't our fault.'

'The human condition, you mean.' Hannibal tapped the back of Will's hand lightly with the rose. 'If you do ever find yourself in need of an alibi, I'm your man.'

'Is that part of the package?'

'It's part of the promise.'

Will felt like the air had been plucked from his lungs, for a moment. 'You aren't actually going to take any vows _seriously_ , are you?'

They were stopped at an intersection; the rain had picked up considerably, and its comforting sound surrounded them.

'Why not?' said Hannibal. There was a hint of challenge alongside his curiosity.

'Legally binding isn't the same as morally binding,' said Will. 'And it's not like anybody's enforcing the "forsaking all others", much less "in sickness and health". It's a symbol.'

'Symbols endure long after intention fades.'

'So do plastic bottles in the Pacific Trash Vortex, doesn't mean it's good for the soul.' The light changed, and Will turned left, taking them down a stretch of road with fewer houses than before, and many more trees.

'Are you concerned about my soul, Will?'

'Maybe a little for your sanity,' Will muttered. Then, 'Look, I'm not saying this isn't fun. The idea of just… having something special, I guess. Something real, that matters. Obviously, that's a nice dream— _dream_ being the operative word.' Will felt like he wasn't saying any of this the way he'd wanted to in his head, but it came out anyway. 'I don't want you to think I _expect_ anything of you, all right? I mean, God, you've bought your way in, I'm just the one with his name on the guest list. It doesn't have to be any more than that unless you want it to be.'

'I do want it to be,' said Hannibal.

He said it so plainly, without the need for inference or guesswork or trying to determine if he truly meant it. It was obvious he did.

_(Fuck.)_

'You were right,' Hannibal added. 'When we first spoke, do you remember?'

'I distinctly recall asking what the hell was the matter with you,' said Will. 'And I'm pretty sure I'm going to _continue_ asking that until you give me a straight answer, because for the life of me I can't figure it out.'

'You guessed that I'd had a lot of people asking after an arrangement with me,' Hannibal clarified. 'You weren't wrong.'

'What happened, did they all just have a bad pickup line, or what? Pretentious waxed moustaches?' Will took another playful stab at it, 'Incurable snoring?'

'Upon speaking with them, I found every last one to be uniformly dull.' Distaste crept into his voice at the memory, and it was the first time Will could remember hearing Hannibal sound so profoundly displeased. 'Enduring their hollow flattery and small-talk seemed to drain the life from the room, and I wanted to escape—and that was at a distance. I couldn't imagine putting up with them through the procedures required to secure my citizenship, which are fit to try one's patience even at the best of times.'

'And you figured you could put up with _me_? That's a first,' said Will. 'Usually I'm the last one picked for Team Charming. What was so different?'

'You greeted me and then immediately interrogated my motives,' said Hannibal. 'Most people were too busy thinking about endorsing the checks.'

Will laughed. 'Really, that's it? I was kind of a dick the first time we talked out loud, and that won you over? Thank God I didn't try to _impress_ you.'

'It would have been wasted.'

Will was still cracking up a little bit. 'Yeah, I'm beginning to see that. Christ, we're a pair, aren't we?'

'It would have been a waste of effort, I mean to say,' Hannibal told him. 'You impressed me without needing to try.'

'By being a jerk?'

'By being inquisitive, and willing.'

The world beyond the rain-warped windows was fully dark, now, save for the occasional street lamp. Signs of close-knit habitation had been falling away, and the road was bordered by woods on either side. 'I suspect,' said Will, 'that maybe you're some kind of masochist. For one thing, you'd talk with me first thing in the morning when you should have been gearing up to listen to patients uncork their misery at you.'

'All the more reason to start my day with something pleasant.'

'You could go for a nice nature walk,' Will suggested, 'look at birds.'

Hannibal didn't miss a beat. 'I'd much rather look at you.'

Will shook his head. 'You're relentless.'

'I'll stop, if you wish.'

'I don't wish.'

'Probably for the best,' said Hannibal. 'I'd find it _very_ difficult to stop. Tell me, Will, if starting my day with you is such aberrant behavior, then what's to be done about how you've been ending your own?'

'Maybe I know that my capacity for bullshit is all full up by then,' said Will, with a smile. 'So I won't take any of yours.'

'A fair point. You never rise to the bait, do you?'

'Maybe it's the wrong bait.'

'Or perhaps you see the hook. Did you like that I kissed you?'

Will concentrated on the road in front of them, and not stuttering his reply. 'How do you weave around ever saying exactly what you mean, and then just thunk down a question like that?'

'I always say what I mean,' said Hannibal.

'I guess you mean a bunch of biblical allusions and half-cocked metaphors that never come to fruition.'

'Ah! I see you've discovered my secret.'

'Guess you've _got_ to marry me, now,' said Will. 'Otherwise you'd have to kill me to keep me quiet.'

'A risk worth considering.' They crested a hill, and there were no more street lamps beyond it, only the glow of the headlights. 'It must have crossed your mind. A wealthy, eccentric stranger from another country, pleading to be welcomed inside. Suspicious, isn't it?'

'You're not a damn _vampire_ ,' said Will. 'And you never pleaded with me, even a little bit.'

'I could.'

Will let out his breath slowly. 'You could.'

'Would that please you?'

'Is this hypothetical?'

'I'm not the one who decides,' said Hannibal.

'Pleasing me isn't your _job_.'

'Are you afraid you'd take advantage of my gratitude, Will?'

'What? No. God, no.'

'But?' Hannibal was clearly enjoying himself—not that Will wasn't. They both excelled at playful half-arguing, trying to back each other into corners only to wriggle free and pin the other, and Will _really_ should learn to keep a lid on those particular thoughts while trying to drive in the rain, because God _damn_.

'But,' he said, 'I haven't even welcomed you in yet. Don't get ahead of yourself.'

'I'm only following where you've led me,' said Hannibal.

'I'm not leading you anywhere.'

'No?'

'Far as I know,' said Will. 'You're grown enough to get into your own trouble, Hannibal. Leave me out of it.'

Hannibal smiled. 'No alibi for me, then? And I thought marriage was meant to be a partnership.'

'How about I pretend not to care that you've been caught, so they don't suspect I was the one who broke you out later?'

'It does have a certain dramatic appeal.'

Will smirked. 'Can't bake a file into a cake, these days, pretty sure they scan things. How could I spring you, any ideas?'

'I wouldn't want to spoil your fun,' said Hannibal. 'I fear you'd grow bored of me, if you had all the answers.'

Off at the end of a field, backed against the tree line, a little house stood as a beacon in the rising storm.

'Yeah,' said Will, at last, as he switched off the engine in the driveway, 'I liked that you kissed me. Come inside.'


	3. Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you showed up with perfect paperwork and said you were in love, what bureaucracy dictated was this:  
>  _Oh, yeah? Prove it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to 'i didn't know shit about visas until this morning, and frankly i still don't!', the land of romance novel make-believe where we play fast and loose with immigration law. i'm your host, a struggling continuity goblin hoisted by my own petard
> 
> (i figure if canon!hannibal can immediately hop on a plane to paris after flooding his kitchen with FBI BLOOD, then anything is possible if we try hard and believe in ourselves)  
> —  
> [gdrive audio](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1PpzqkPKYTkzcUsOl0rGYeyXXw4x2UU_O)  
> [filehosting audio](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/769954/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20three.mp3)

Will prepared dinner while Hannibal showered.

It took some effort to wrap his mind around that. Six simple words, weren't they? One person cooking, another getting clean. No big deal, right? Right.

Will needed to clear away the scree of papers that he'd forgotten on the kitchen table—because of _course_ he'd forgotten something, and indeed had forgotten to ask lot of things that only seemed to swim up into the forefront of his mind now, when he couldn't get an immediate answer. He didn't know how Hannibal took his coffee. He didn't know if he wore pajamas to sleep.

Fact of the matter was, Will didn't know a lot.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He knew that Hannibal had raised snails in the overgrown graveyard of his father's estate; he knew that Hannibal played the theremin, and the harpsichord, and (at the age of sixteen) in a school production of _Much Ado about Nothing._ Will knew that Hannibal had once backpacked around Italy, bartering his way from city to city with art. He knew the song Hannibal had sung to his little sister when she was scared of a storm, knew the shade of green he liked best, his favorite painting, his favorite piece by Bach.

Will supposed that the everyday knowledge would unfold on its own. They had plenty of time to practice—and they might _have_ to.

As the oven preheated, Will tried to get the kitchen into a more welcoming state. He wasn't someone prone to clutter, but his old laptop didn't like having too many tabs open, and bad copy paper was cheap; his immigration research would eventually go into the fire, so it's not like it was completely going to waste.

He felt like he'd read the same thing a hundred times, and it never felt like it would be any easier than it had seemed on the first go around. It wasn't the occasional legal jargon, or the form numbers, or the waiting periods involved. It was the everything-else-about-it that daunted him.

_In order to obtain a green card (US lawful permanent residence) based upon marriage, one must prove that the marriage is bona fide. This means a marriage in which the two people intend, from the start, to establish a life together._

Will could practically rattle it off from memory. He swept the Post-It flags and highlighters into the catch-all he kept at the end of the counter, leaned to check that the sauce on the stove was behaving itself, stepped around the occasional snoozing dog, kept busy. This could work, couldn't it? People did this all the time.

_A marriage conducted for the sole purpose of securing the immigrant's citizenship is considered to be fraudulent under US law. Anyone who knowingly enters into a "sham" marriage for the purposes of evading the provisions of immigration law has committed a felony offense. Marriage fraud carries a prison sentence of up to five years and a fine up to $250,000._

(God, why didn't Hannibal just file for an H-1B, or an O-1A with dual intent? From what Will had gathered, Hannibal would meet the requirements; you had to be _outstanding_. Will couldn't think of anyone else he'd describe with that word, so why not Hannibal? Because he wanted a place to land, someone to call home. Wouldn't it have been better if he'd landed with someone who knew what the hell was going on?)

_US Citizenship and Immigration Services has determined that a high number of marriage-based green card applications are fraudulent; some US citizens may even accept bribes to assist a foreign national in committing fraud, or enter into an arranged marriage through the assistance of various illegal services._

Will supposed he could check Criminal Matchmaking off of his bucket list.

They both knew what they were getting into—they'd discussed it at length, bickered about it, made compromises and contingency plans. Will hadn't known where to start, and felt incredibly lost even now, but Hannibal seemed to know what he was doing, thank God. He'd laid out their options, and there was only one that had made sense, in the end.

Three years of continuous residence in the same place, with Will.

That wouldn't be settled for a while, yet. There were other hoops to jump through, some of them (from Will's point of view) on fire. But he tried not dwell on it, or see it as something to fear. This was a challenge, wasn't it? A game.

He knew what Hannibal expected of him: Not much. All things considered, Will was pretty sure he could follow through with that. If somebody had gone up to him and said, _hey, would you like a fascinating lodger for three years? One who not only puts up with you, but wants to start his day with you, cook for you, introduce you to luxuries you didn't even know existed, while also paying off literally all of your debt for no goddamn reason at all?,_ Will would have laughed in their face.

But here he was.

One item on his spectacularly short list of responsibilities was that Will had to, eventually, prove that he could, if necessary, support his future spouse. And he certainly _could_ , what with his (this was the ploy, you see) decades worth of Mattress Cash he'd allegedly squirrelled away like the weird, scruffy outsider he was.

But you couldn't just say, _hey, we're in love, here's the cost of filing, stamp the damn form and bunk off for an early lunch,_ because bureaucracy is supposed to act as a shield against duplicitous villains who want to inflict their villainy on God's green American turf. _Don't be fooled,_ various agencies warned the wholesome citizens under their tender care, _keep a tight hold on your Dream and your Freedom and your Mom's Apple Pie, because these weirdoes might sink to anything. Drain the country of its resources? Sure can. Assassinate the president, who's doing just fine by the way and not in any way driving an already precarious wreck over the edge? Top of the to-do list! Decimate the economy and take the jobs we're too proud to acknowledge are important to keeping society running? Wouldn't put it past 'em. All of the above! Think of the children!_

So when you showed up with perfect paperwork and said you were in love, what bureaucracy dictated was this:

_Oh, yeah? Prove it._

Prove that you dated, that you doted on each other, showered each other with gifts. Prove you pined, traveled, tried to make it work long-distance. Did you send flowers? Did you cry over the phone? When's his birthday, what's his ring size, what's his mother's maiden name? Would you swear before God that you know when and where you met? When did he first tell you he loved you? What book is he reading, where did he earn which degrees? How many languages does he speak? Are you able to describe his distinguishing marks, scars, the precise color of his eyes? Are you sure? Because if you're not, something bad will happen. Not just to you, either. Is that your answer?

Are you _positive_ , Will Graham?

As Will shoved the papers into a basket and out of the way, he wondered if _normal_ people ever felt this nervous about getting married.

Upstairs, the shower switched off. About ten minutes later, as Will was taking garlic bread out of the oven, Hannibal walked in.

He was dressed far more casually than Will typically saw him, the lines of his silhouette softened and his hair still damp. 'May I help with anything?' he asked.

Will tried not to stare. He knew that nobody could be in a three-piece suit all the time, but in all his imaginings he'd never quite pictured this. Soft pajama bottoms (black, or very dark blue, Will couldn't yet determine), a sweater that fit him well. Will wondered if this was calculated. Hannibal knew plenty about Will's insecurities by now, and perhaps he wanted to give Will the upper hand, that little bit of leverage that comes from being the one who's more appropriately dressed for dinner.

Or maybe he'd spent an ungodly number of hours in airplanes and airport lounges, and wanted to be comfortable for the first time in nearly three days.

And it's not that Hannibal was _inappropriately_ dressed. (Will tucked away the thought of what that might mean, if and when it ever came about.) And in Will's opinion, Hannibal's cozy-night-in-after-air-travel ensemble still seemed much more refined than his own, but that was neither here nor there.

'Banjo's knocked around their water dish again,' said Will, tossing Hannibal a kitchen towel that had hung looped through the handle of the fridge door. 'He's started to figure out that if you slosh it out of the tray their bowls are on, he can lick it off the floor and doesn't have to wait his turn.'

'Banjo is the border collie, yes?' When Will nodded, Hannibal seemed pleased, and went without complaint to tidy up the slight puddle. 'I suppose if I insist upon going around barefoot, I should keep an eye on these things.'

'You struck me as a slippers type,' Will admitted, going around the counter to set the table in the last few minutes before the pasta was ready.

'They were taken out of my luggage, if you can believe it.'

'Sticky-fingered TSA agents, huh?' Will laid out the silverware, hesitating for a moment as he tried to remember what side you were supposed to put the knife. Memories of restaurants seems to flee his head, and he decided that if he got it wrong, he could watch how Hannibal moved things, and do it that way from then on. Or just keep doing it his way, and see how Hannibal reacted to that.

'Out of all the things they could have chosen,' Hannibal said, 'slippers. What are the odds?'

'Can't weigh the odds if I don't know what else was in the running,' said Will.

'Far more tempting items than that, I assure you.' Hannibal straightened up, and took the water dish over to the sink to top it up again. 'Have you ever stolen something, Will?'

Will chuckled, taking the pot off the stove. 'Apart from produce?'

'Ah, yes. I'd forgotten your watermelon.' Hannibal turned, and saw Will waiting to get past him to drain the pasta; he got the colander down off its hook for him, and set it in the sink.

'Thanks,' said Will.

Hannibal took the dish back over to where it lived under the window. A couple of the dogs, sensing they were getting something fresh, watched him with interest. 'Once, I stole a book.'

'From a store or a person?' Will leaned back a little so the steam from the pasta water wouldn't fog his glasses as he tipped it down the drain. 'I can't imagine you dodging library fines.'

'A market stall. This was when I'd first moved to Paris, to live with my aunt and uncle.'

Will shook the colander gently, getting additional water out. 'How old were you, again?'

'Old enough to know better.' Hannibal hung the towel from the handle of the oven door, spread out so it could dry against the fading warmth. 'There was a time when if I wanted something, I simply took it.'

'Even a short period of scarcity can have that effect,' Will pointed out. 'If you can't always see to your basic needs, luxuries are either stolen or impossible. What was it called?'

_'Flowers of Ancient History;'_ said Hannibal _, 'Comprehending, on a New Plan, the Most Remarkable and Interesting Events, as well as Characters, of Antiquity; Designed for the Improvement and Entertainment of Youth.'_

Will laughed a little. 'That's a mouthful.'

'They named them like that, in 1817.'

'If I'd stolen a book as a teenager,' said Will, pouring the pasta into the pot of sauce and stirring, 'it probably would have been a murder mystery, and I would have checked to make sure it had sex parts in it.'

'History is full of murder,' said Hannibal. 'And sex.'

Will shook his head. 'Too many loose ends. I like a nice, tidy denouement; there's enough unanswered questions and unfinished business in real life without adding to the pile. What happened to it?'

'Hmm?' Hannibal was over by the window again, scratching Aphrodite behind the ears; she was giving him a penetrating stare, tongue poking out over her underbite.

'Your book.'

'It's in my carry-on,' said Hannibal. 'Well-thumbed and yellowed with age, and a little water-damaged, I'm sorry to say. In all my travels, I've never left it behind.'

_'That_ improving-and-entertaining, huh?' said Will, getting a couple of hard cheeses out of the fridge, hunting around in a drawer for the grater. 'Or was it just sentimental value?'

'Perhaps I'll read it to you,' said Hannibal. 'Can I bring anything to the table?'

Will nearly said _you've brought plenty_ , but caught himself. 'The bread, if you want. Should be cooled-off enough to eat without any mishaps.' He snuck a bit of the sauce on the end of a spoon and tested it for what was probably the tenth time; it still seemed to be missing something. 'Hey,' he said, 'try this and tell me what it needs, for next time. I, uh. I know it's a little belated for this go around, but it's never too late to learn, right?' He dipped the spoon again, and held it out, his other hand cupped under it to catch any drips.

Hannibal didn't take the spoon from him, and instead simply leaned a little to bring it into his mouth and taste. Will hesitated, then gently pulled it back as Hannibal closed his lips around the bowl of the spoon, sliding it free.

'Thoughts?' said Will, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears over the completely uncalled-for thudding of his heart.

'Citrus,' said Hannibal. 'Just a touch, to brighten the edges. Do you have any?'

Will went back to what he was doing, trying not to dissolve into the floor. 'Nope.'

'Then it's perfectly acceptable as it is,' said Hannibal. 'The tarragon adds a pleasant sweetness. Not too heavy-handed, well done.'

'It's almost as if I listen when you ramble about cooking,' Will teased him. 'So, it gets a passing grade?'

'I'm not grading you, Will,' he replied. 'I like it.'

They sat down to eat. Outside, the volume of the rain fluctuated in waves, as sheets of it passed over the house.

'Does your room look all right?' said Will. 'I mean, for now.'

'It's lovely, Will, thank you.' Hannibal took a sip of his wine. (Will had searched a dozen or so foodie blogs for recommendations, and had even bought proper wine glasses. He wondered how Hannibal might have reacted if Will had served it out of rocks glasses like whiskey, which is what he usually did.)

'I may have gotten a little carried away,' said Will.

'I didn't expect you to paint.'

'Well, I did.'

Hannibal smiled. 'It's a beautiful color.'

'I took a screenshot of one of our calls,' said Will, a little abashed but charging on, regardless, 'from a weekend when it snowed in Paris. You were in the library, and the light was so… _clean_. Used the eyedropper tool, got the hex codes for the colors from one of your paisley ties. Took it in to the paint desk at Home Depot, did a little swatch comparison, and here we are.'

'You went to a great deal of trouble to surprise me.'

'I wanted to. It was fun,' said Will. 'And you ended up with jewel tones and an accent wall, so… win/win.'

'I ended up with more than that,' Hannibal reminded him, and the blush Will had been fighting down finally got its way.

It was nice, how easily they slipped into comfortable cooperation. Hannibal washed up their dishes, and Will dried them. A few days ago, Will had put up painter's tape on the cupboards and drawers, labeled with permanent marker, so Hannibal knew where things lived. One awkward corner cabinet under the counter was marked, _small appliances, cursed objects, ??, THE ABYSS._

'What?' said Will, as Hannibal chuckled at it. 'It's accurate. Just being helpful.'

'Yes, it's very informative.'

'I mean, what if you have something cursed and didn't know where to put it?'

'I'd hate to disrupt your fine-tuned organizational system.'

'Exactly.'

'Already, we're working together so well.'

Will put the plates in the cabinet. 'God, I'd hate to actually _work_ with you.'

'Do you predict a personality clash?'

'I predict that I'd be too distracted getting the last word to get anything done,' said Will. 'And you'd steal the show, regardless. I'm sure my students would love to listen to you talk as much as I do.'

'To talk as much as you do?' Hannibal asked, for the sake of clarity. 'Or they'd enjoy it as much as you enjoy me?'

'I doubt they could,' said Will.

Hannibal glanced over at him. 'Are you so fond of me already? I'm surprised.'

'You wouldn't be washing my cutlery right now if I hated your guts. Not that, uh,' Will felt stupid, 'I don't _expect_ you to be doing chores or something, that's not…'

'Marriage is a partnership,' said Hannibal. 'You cooked, tonight. It's the least I can do.'

'"The least you could do" is a lot less than that. Anyway, you're not my damn houseboy.'

'Nor are you. Would you prefer me to be idle?'

Will didn't answer that, drying the forks. 'Did you see the shelf cleared for you in the bathroom cabinet?'

'Yes, thank you.'

That meant Hannibal had seen the pump bottle of medication that was in there, too, 1.62% testosterone. And he hadn't said a word. 'Just let me know if you need more space,' Will told him.

'It's hardly cramped. You seem to keep a tight rein on your belongings, everything clustered together.'

'You should've seen the place before I rearranged,' said Will dryly.

Hannibal pulled the plug to drain the sink of its sudsy water. 'I would have liked to. Really, Will, you needn't go to such lengths to accommodate me; your company is all I require.'

Will's neck felt hot. 'For now.'

There was a long moment held silent between them, then Hannibal said, gently, 'I know you're worried, Will. It's an arduous process.'

'I just can't figure out why you didn't…' he trailed off, blowing out a sigh. 'Never mind.'

'Why I didn't go about things another way?'

'It's not like you have any reason to cheat the system.'

'I'm not cheating,' said Hannibal. 'I'm improvising.'

'Bit difficult to improvise, when you have to wait around for months for some faceless office drone to decide whether you're allowed to have a place to live,' said Will. 'You seemed to have a good life in France. What changed?'

Hannibal rolled the sleeves of his sweater back down to the wrist. 'I lost the last of my family,' he said, leaning back against the counter to watch as Will dried the wine glasses, 'someone I loved more than anyone else. And I found myself… spinning out. I was becoming reckless, and needed a change.'

'You're the most controlled person I've ever met,' said Will. 'I can't imagine what Reckless Hannibal would look like.' He tried to lighten the tone, a little. 'What did you do, mix plaids?'

'I did worse than that, believe me. But,' Hannibal gave him a little nod, 'in my desperate bids for attention, I found you.'

'"Desperate bids for attention"? I feel like I was the one bidding on yours, more than anything.'

The way Hannibal replied was matter-of-fact. 'You were the only one I wanted.'

Will's breath caught, a little.

'And,' Hannibal went on, 'that discovery led to everything else falling away.'

'You still mix patterns,' said Will. 'It's obnoxious.'

'And yet you've sworn to endure it, among my other unusual tastes. Shall we sit by the fire for a while?'

Will had acquired the second-hand couch only last week, from a colleague redecorating their office, and it was one of the most expensive-looking things he owned. Buttery-soft leather, its cushions plush but not excessively so. Will had folded a quilt over the back of it, and (mostly) kept the dogs off. The idea of cozying up beside Hannibal at the end of a long day was sweeter than he'd anticipated—and he _had_ anticipated sweetness, in that regard, if he was being honest. Perhaps too much. He made sure to temper it with some of his bitterness, just in case; he had plenty to spare.

The rose's broken stem had been trimmed properly, and now the flower stood in a pint-sized mason jar atop the piano. Flames snapped in the hearth, gold and inviting. And though it seemed they could talk forever, they listened instead.

There is a peculiar knowledge, in silence. To hear when the other breathes, how often he lifts his cup of tea to his lips, the shift of clothing as he moves, is an intimacy found in nothing else. They watched the fire, listening to the house settling for the night.

It was a peace he hadn't expected, and Will didn't know when, but he wandered into a dream.

Shadows drifted like a curtain, forward and back. There were soft sounds, somewhere nearby, but Will couldn't determine what it was. Didn't matter, really. He felt full and brimming with golden light, and no thought of the future intruded, save for a sense of certainty that all would be well.

When consciousness swam forth briefly once more, it rose to the gentle murmur of Hannibal's voice.

'"—possessed with a rage of conquest, subdued a great number of nations all the way from Egypt to India; but suspended his warlike enterprises to enlarge the city of Nineveh, which had been founded by his father. Nineveh was quickly built with walls one hundred feet high, having fifteen hundred towers…"'

And as he dozed, he saw a fortress: Will on the outside, Hannibal within.


	4. Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hannibal returned to the house, he checked his phone; Will had sent him a text.  
>  _Smooth bastard._  
>  It made Hannibal smile. _Did you like them?_  
>  Will replied about half an hour later, clearly between classes. _You got glitter all over me. It's a curse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the belated update—my boyfriend is adorable and distracting, whOOPS i'm gay
> 
> the song hannibal is singing to himself is [_j'ai rendez-vous avec vous_ by georges brassens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEbH3equflQ) and it's cute as fuck
> 
> i've noticed that the audio of prior chapters has sounded flat, so i left off the pop filter this time. there's more of a crispness, at the expense of little atmospheric noises here and there. (can you tell i fidget and shift in my chair when doing Will Voice? because i do)
> 
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/open?id=16g-1FZYY7brxJQGjpxp-7kotS7G-wgeJ)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/771334/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20four.mp3)

Will's alarm went off on the bedside table, and he slapped it after eight beeps. Rufus and Moxie were asleep at is feet, Buster and Ella down on the rug, but they perked up immediately and went into the kitchen. Creatures of habit, as much as Will was.

He could hear Hannibal moving around, faint cooking sounds drifting down the hall. Hannibal was singing something up-tempo under his breath in French; Will caught some of it here and there, and it made him smile, even though he didn't recognize the song.

_Le menu que je préfère,_  
_C’est la chair de votre cou,_  
_Tout le restant m’indiffère,_  
_J’ai rendez-vous avec vous!_

Will got out of bed, moving quietly because he wanted to listen, didn't want to interrupt. He found himself smiling, which was a rare occurrence first thing in the morning. After he'd gathered up his clothes for after a shower, he went into the kitchen.

'Hey,' he said, hoarse with sleep.

'Will! Good morning.' Hannibal was at the stove, a kitchen towel over his shoulder, prodding something around in a skillet that smelled deliciously of browned butter and herbs. 'How do you like your eggs?'

'Cooked,' said Will. 'You're up early.'

'I like to have as many hours in the day as possible. Did you sleep well?'

Will had, but he felt a little silly telling Hannibal how much. 'Um, fine. And you?'

'It's so peaceful, here,' said Hannibal. 'I like it very much. You will have time for breakfast, won't you? I know you've said you leave at half-past six.'

'I've got time.' Will mentally added, _for you._ He noticed that Hannibal had topped up the dogs' food and water dishes. 'Pack been let out?' he asked, because who knows?

'About half an hour ago,' said Hannibal. 'Buster seemed particularly in need of it.'

Will huffed a laugh. 'Bladder the size of a lima bean. You good? Know how to find everything you need?'

Hannibal turned to smile at him, then. 'I'm finding out that I do.'

Will felt a little jolt in his stomach, like he'd missed a step. 'Uh, good. Good. Right. I'm gonna shower.'

'Our meal should be ready when you're done,' Hannibal called after him as Will mounted the stairs, and Will couldn't help but smile at the fact that it was _their_ breakfast, together.

The shower ran out of hot water a little sooner than usual, but Will didn't mind. He was too full of hope for the day, and (if he was being honest) for a lot of days ahead.

* * *

Alana Bloom had her arms crossed, and her ankles crossed, leaning against the door frame of the faculty lounge. Will was looking for something he'd left in there the previous day, or at least that he assumed he'd left in there; in his eagerness to get work over with for the day and dash home and then dash to the airport, he'd been something of a whirlwind.

'You been to your classroom?' said Alana.

Will had tipped up one of the sofa cushions, looking under it, as if he could have somehow misplaced a folder inside of a piece of furniture. 'Why, have they done something to it?'

(Four years ago, when Will was out of town doing a police consult, somebody had _taken_ his _plant_. Despite several colleagues' conviction that the pot probably just got broken by mistake by one of the cleaning staff and swept under the rug, so to speak, Will wasn't so sure. Now and again, in any sort of educational setting, students would play tricks and push boundaries just to see if they could get away with it. And after all, it was only a plant. But Will had kept that plant alive, and saw it as sort of a friend, and the fact that he had to then _shop for a new one_ felt like he'd betrayed it. Which was stupid. It was only a plant.)

'Somebody certainly did something,' Alana told him. 'Not a bad thing.'

'Oh,' said Will, prodding the cushion back into place. 'Good, I guess. Why are you acting weird?'

'How am I acting weird?'

'Like you know something.'

'I do know something.'

'But not the thing you actually want to know,' Will observed. 'You can just ask.'

'I don't want to ruin the surprise.'

'What surprise?'

'If I told you the surprise I don't want to ruin,' she said, 'I'd ruin it.' She pushed off from where she was leaning, and nodded at the bag Will had had in his hand when he walked in. 'You packed lunch?'

'Yep.'

Alana still had her arms crossed, one hip canted a little as she watched Will poking around for his folder that obviously wasn't there. 'You usually just go down to the caf.'

'Yep,' Will repeated.

'Hmm.' She sized him up with a look. 'You've got a spring in your step and your shirt's tucked in tight enough that I can see that you actually have a waist under there.'

'Thanks, Sherlock Holmes, next you're going to tell me what I had for breakfast this morning and that I own a dog.'

'Can't speak for the menu,' said Alana, 'but you're not dragging your carcass around like a trash bag, so I assume you managed more than toast for once.'

'Yep.' Will flashed her a tight smile, and it became more of a real one when he saw that she was giving him a fond look. 'Listen, what is this about? What am I in for?'

She chuckled, shaking her head. 'You're really not expecting anything, are you? Bless your heart.' And when he went, she followed him.

The front of the low-lit lecture hall was alive with flowers. Fat pink peonies, their delicate layers unfurled, debauched and laid open to the eye; black lilies, their fleshlike petals drinking in light like thick velvet; dahlias of an intense, regal purple held their cupped hands aloft. Pink and white chains of bleeding-hearts arced from the edges of the bouquet, hanging all in a line and looking so much like little bells that Will could swear they made a sound.

Most numerous were the roses: massive blossoms of so deep a crimson it was almost black, the edges of their petals sparkling with some sort of golden powder. Will breathlessly lifted his hand to cradle the heavy head of one rose in his palm, and the touch left a shimmer on his skin, like the sun reflected on water in an impressionist painting.

There was a card, and Will plucked it from the little plastic trident that held it into place, feeling like he was in a dream. _To my Will, on the first day of our life._

'Do you know who they're from?' asked Alana, a little hushed, as if in respect of the wonder Will was clearly experiencing.

Will swallowed before he spoke, and tried to keep the faint tremble he felt in his chest from making its way into his voice. 'My fiancé,' he said.

Alana looked at him in disbelief. 'Your what, now?'

'I've been engaged for four months,' said Will, setting his bag down behind the desk and trying to sound like it was no big deal. It's not like people asked about his life, much. Even the couple of colleagues he actually got along with tended to assume that he didn't have much going on, and they were usually right.

There were just enough flowers for it to seem extravagant, but not so many as to be obnoxious. They might cause comment, but it wasn't an over-the-top gesture. Hannibal was a fancy bastard—among the fanciest, truth be told—but good taste dictated that he was never Too Much.

'Must be something!' said Alana, trying to hide her delight behind her hand, and failing.

'Yeah,' said Will, blushing a little from how pleased he was, and how surprised he was by that. 'He is.'

Alana gave him a _well, check you out!_ look, and grinned at him. 'Congratulations, Will! I'm… God, I'm _really_ happy for you. What's his name?'

'Hannibal.' Will liked saying his name, always had, but he realized that he'd never said it to someone other than Hannibal himself.

Alana's eyebrows went up. 'Huh. I knew a Hannibal once—probably not the same one, what are the odds of that?'

Will shrugged. 'Knowing a _Hannibal_ isn't like knowing a _Bob_. How many could there possibly be?'

'Is he in my field?'

'Farther in than most. Psychiatry with a hearty side order of counseling and social work. And apparently, before that, he—'

'Used to be a surgeon?' Alana was shaking her head as she smiled. 'Well, I'll be damned. We know the same one.'

Will felt strangely tense, for a second. Like he wanted to tuck Hannibal away in the hollow of his hand, keep Hannibal all to himself. But they were supposed to build a life together, weren't they? Lives had more than one person in them. And it's not like Alana was going to… _anyway_. She was happy for him.

(Nevertheless, Will had enjoyed Hannibal being his secret vice, his midnight confidant. Solely his.)

'Never thought he'd leave Paris unless they drove him out with torches and pitchforks,' Alana went on, wonderingly. 'How did you meet?'

They'd rehearsed a story over breakfast, playing _Yes, And_ , playing against one another and watching everything fall into place, far more plausible than reality.

'I'd read some of his work,' said Will, starting to hook up his laptop to the projector for the day. 'And it was this weird coincidence, I'd sent him a message with a question about one of his papers that was relevant to the, um, that conference I ended up not going to this summer. We'd exchanged a few replies—this was like a year ago, I think?—and uh, I sort of forgot about it. And then he pops up,' Will was smiling now, just a little, but Alana was familiar enough to know that a little _was_ a big deal, 'to see if I could weigh in on a book he's writing.'

'And did you?' said Alana.

Will nodded, and sat down as his computer booted up. He kept reaching to touch the edge of a rose again, gold coming away on his fingers. 'We just… clicked, immediately. I can't explain it.'

Alana chuckled again. 'Can't blame you. When I was a student, he'd come to the States to do a lecture course, and I was _fascinated_. He's got enough charisma to sell the devil an old shoe. I can't believe you two ended up together, that's like something out of a story.'

Will had doodled a heart in faint gold shimmer on the surface of his desk, then self-consciously rubbed it out with the heel of his hand. 'Why, because I'm the old shoe?'

'No!' Alana chastised him fondly. 'Because everything rolls off him. He'd have,' she hesitated marginally, 'lovers, but he was never the sort to settle down.'

'That's observant,' Will pointed out, 'coming from his student.'

Alana blew out a short sigh. 'You got me there. But you seem like just his type, honestly, and… well, if you're engaged, you obviously see the appeal.'

'I see it,' said Will. Students were starting to trickle in for his first class of the day, giving the flowers (and Will) mildly curious looks. 'And before you ask, Alana, no, I don't think it's weird.'

'I won't mention it, if it ever is.'

'I know. You're good at not mentioning my sundry weirdnesses.'

She took his hand and squeezed it briefly, a little gesture that time and familiarity had established was all right between them. Some sparkles transferred to her skin from Will's, and Will, irrationally, wanted them back.

'I'm glad he found somebody that stuck,' she said.

'Like a thorn in his side,' Will agreed.

Alana shrugged. 'A lot of beautiful things have thorns attached. Hannibal knows that better than anyone, and clearly he had the sense to hang onto you, even _if_ you're prickly.'

And she left, leaving Will wondering.

* * *

For a majority of the day, Hannibal unpacked. He listened to the comings and goings of the dogs from room to room, the soft sound of indecisive rain as it wandered around up on the roof. He found places for all his things: suits in the closet on their polished wooden hangers, shoes next to Will's in the rack in the front room. Books went into shelves, and small items into the bedside drawer. His journals went in a stack on the desk under his bedroom window, for which Will had provided a serviceable fountain pen and various other necessities.

It was good to be home.

Tomorrow, they'd agreed, Hannibal would drive Will to work, and have use of the car for the day, to do some shopping. It would certainly help to have a wider range of things to work with in the kitchen, and there were everyday belongings he'd left behind with the intent of purchasing replacements upon his arrival. And, characteristically, Hannibal was of a mind to find Will some little gift that might make him smile.

When the rain eased at about midafternoon, Hannibal pulled on boots. He took the dogs out, wandering the property, skirting the woods and then delving, finding his way, getting the lay of the land. Hannibal made note of the changes in the terrain, and landmarks: a trunk gnawed by beavers, clusters of wild, tart little blackberries. A small, rust-fenced graveyard far back in the trees, its Civil War-era headstones leaning and thick with lichen, joined alongside by newer graves, marked with crosses of plank and nail: _Jeeves, 2008. Watson, 2013. Bard, 2017._

When Hannibal returned to the house, he checked his phone; Will had sent him a text.

_Smooth bastard._

It made Hannibal smile. _Did you like them?_

Will replied about half an hour later, clearly between classes. _You got glitter all over me. It's a curse._

 _You didn't have to touch them,_ Hannibal replied, _but I'm glad you did. I like knowing I've left a mark on you._ He entertained himself for a few minutes with the thought of Will's expression, and started on the prep for dinner.

Will's reply came back like a shot. _You didn't need glitter for that. Why the hell didn't you tell me you knew Alana Bloom?_

Hannibal had begun to type, when Will added, _And I use "knew" in both senses, btw. Technical and… biblical._

_If you'd like an annotated list of my former lovers, Will, I'd be happy to provide it._

There were a few false starts before Will decided upon an appropriate response. _I don't want to know. I don't want my imagination to get ahold of it._

_Do you frequently imagine me in such a context, Will?_

Hannibal had kneaded bread and set it by the radiator to rise, by the time Will answered him.

_Shut up._

But it was signed with a rose.

* * *

The fine, metallic shimmer still clung to Will's hands by the end of the day—helped along by the fact that he kept _renewing_ it, but that's not the point—and he felt like Hannibal was leaving little golden touches everywhere, on all of his things, every room Will occupied.

And now he was home, where Hannibal left real fingerprints. He now moved through the spaces where, before, Will had always been alone. The idea of Hannibal's touch was grounding, and solid; he opened these doors, he walked along this hall. Why was that such a comforting thought?

(Snap out of it, Will. It's not that deep. Right? Right.)

Hannibal had made them dinner. It was ready and waiting, with almost preternatural timing, the moment Will arrived.

'Will! How was your day?' Hannibal took his coat, with was completely unnecessary. Will allowed it.

'Sparkly. Yours?'

'Pleasant in every respect—even more so, now that you've come home to me.' It was impossible to miss the implications, there. 'I unpacked my things, and the dogs showed me around. They took me to their little cemetery.'

'I did wonder why Moxie had pine needles stuck to her butt,' Will noted, with a smile. 'Leave any flowers?'

'I save all my flowers for you, Will.' Hannibal washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then stood aside so Will could do so. 'I was interested to learn their names, however.'

Will watched the faint kiss of gold slip down the drain, and thought of how he'd enjoy getting it back when he got to work tomorrow. 'I'm a creature of habit. Old books from library sales, old records from barn sales. It's a one-two punch of abandoned things.'

Hannibal recalled a few stories Will had told him in the past. 'Early on, you cultivated a taste for the second-hand.'

'Hyep,' said Will, turning off the taps. 'And when I can get away with it, I eat other people's leftovers. What's for dinner?'

'Never ask.'

'Is that house rules, now?'

'Not a rule,' said Hannibal, handing Will the towel for his hands. 'A gentle suggestion.'

'I typically don't pick up on gentle suggestion,' Will noted, as he took his place at the table. 'Might be easier to assume your word is law.'

All of Will's mismatched trivets and potholders were laid out, waiting to support things: woven sea-grass, quilted yellow-and-white gingham, bleach-splotched black, knobbly red crochet, the one with the rooster on it. One by one, Hannibal eclipsed them with dishes.

'The last word always belongs to you, Will,' said Hannibal, sitting down across from him.

'Is that your way of "gently suggesting" I'm a smartass?'

Hannibal smiled as he poured Will a glass of wine. 'My way of saying that I find myself inclined to abide by your wishes, in every respect.'

'That's treacherous territory,' said Will. 'Better watch yourself—I might get the wrong end of the stick.'

'Either end suits me just as well,' said Hannibal.

'Of the stick?'

'Or the carrot.'

The comment hung over the table between them, and Will, just for an instant, just enough for Hannibal to notice, looked like he wanted to snatch it out of the air and hide it away, so he could keep it for later.

'Well,' said Will. 'I guess I'd better figure out which end I want, then.'

'I guess you'd better.'

Dinner was comprised of some of the ingredients that Will had gathered up prior to Hannibal's arrival. He'd wanted him to have _something_ to work with, other than fish and potatoes, eggs and oats. Hannibal had used the last of the season's venison from the freezer (having asked, first), glazed with something thick and dark and just-spicy-enough, with whole mushrooms roasted to a golden crispness, caramelized onions, fresh rolls, and a bright stir-fry of about six different green things of varied bitterness and bite.

It's not that Will hadn't believed that Hannibal was a good cook; he'd watched him many times before, when Hannibal had set his tablet in its stand on the counter and talked to Will as he worked, or recorded himself doing aesthetically-pleasing _mise_ at times when Will was asleep on the other side of the world. And Will had found society column articles praising Hannibal's dinner parties— _masterminded by the good doctor, himself, who understands the breadth of the human palate as readily as the mind._ This was yet another area where Will felt like Hannibal had drawn the short straw. Why leave all that behind, just for him? Just for _this_? Why leave it behind for rain spitting down on the roof, damp dogs sitting on his nice shoes under a scuffed kitchen table that had only ever seated one person, before? And he called Will a _catch_. Will suspected, at times, that he was less of a catch and more of a snare.

'This is really good,' said Will, at last.

Hannibal gave him a little smile, then looked down, saying, 'It is, isn't it?'

'Vain,' Will quipped.

'I didn't mean the food,' said Hannibal.

'I did.' A beat. 'And… otherwise.' Will swallowed. 'Both.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'Yeah, well,' said Will, picking up his wine glass, hoping its contents might smooth out the prickly edges that still clung to him, 'don't get cocky. It's easy to be impressive in short bursts, not so easy to sustain.'

Hannibal's eyebrows had changed position slightly; Will was as fascinated as ever by how so minor a movement could drastically alter his expression. 'Go on.'

'Even the sharpest people have their mortal moments,' Will explained. 'Stomach flu, shitty mood, seasonal allergies. Terrible taste in some kind of thing that only comes up once in a blue moon, like road trip food, or… I don't know,' he took a sip of wine, 'fonts. You'll bang your elbow one of these days, hotshot. Stub your toe and shout to the heavens like Job cursing God. You'll have one of those times where every tenth word out of your mouth is tangled up and tripped over, and you don't know why. You'll want to strangle me, too.'

'Whatever for?' said Hannibal.

'For leaving the cap off the toothpaste tube, or spending an inordinate amount of time blow-drying the dogs when we have somewhere to be.' Will cut a mushroom in half and speared a piece on the end of his fork. 'Maybe my bad moods rub off on you,' he paused to chew and swallow, 'or my meds.' (The more he sneaked in references to it, the less dangerous it felt.) 'Maybe I'll wake you up one too many times.'

'There are ways to mitigate crying out in the night, Will.'

'Oh, yeah?'

His eyes seemed to sparkle almost as much as Will's hands had, earlier. 'Crying out now and again whilst awake.'

'Are you recommending the old scream-into-a-pillow method of emotional release? Because I gotta say, if that's your line, your framed credentials are about as useful as a self-care sidebar in _Cosmo_.'

'Pillow or not,' said Hannibal, 'I find a nice, throaty scream to be cathartic.'

'Maybe I'm not in the market for catharsis,' said Will.

'Isn't everyone?'

Will chuckled. 'You're a man with a hammer, Doctor. Not everything is psychological.'

'No,' Hannibal agreed. 'Some things are very physical. Can I tempt you with dessert?'

 Later, on the sofa in front of the fire, Will sat with his feet up on the ottoman; Hannibal lay with his head resting on Will's thigh, reading to him. Will couldn't quite pinpoint when and how they'd gotten into this position, and, he realized, that could describe a hell of a lot of where he was at in his life.

'"Affairs now assume a different appearance. Achilles, furious for the loss of his friend, forgetting the former cause of his resentment, joins his forces to the rest of the Grecian army, beats the Trojans, and sacrifices on the tomb of Patroclus, twelve of the noblest prisoners taken by him in the engagement. He is now solely intent—"'

'Hannibal,' Will interrupted. This wasn't new; he'd interrupted a few times, and Hannibal didn't seem annoyed. If anything, Hannibal was eager to hear what he had to say, so Will felt like whatever it was, he could say it. 'What do you think would have happened if Patroclus had lived?'

'He would have been slain another way,' said Hannibal, lowering the book, marking their place with the length of his finger.

'Well, yeah, everything dies eventually.'

'His death, at the height of his ability and love, was a Fated thing, and therefore required,' said Hannibal. 'Had he survived, Achilles would not have met the enemy with success. The nature of the world thereafter might have been irreparably altered.'

Will had been watching the fire for so long that when he looked away, blotches of pink and darkness swam in the forefront of his vision like a lava lamp. 'I wonder what that world's like. Do you ever think about your other lives?'

'Are you saying you believe in reincarnation, Will?'

He made a considering noise. 'I don't know. I feel like we can't know one way or the other, there's not enough reliable sources of information.'

'We're in agreement, there.'

'I just meant, like…' Will trailed off for a long moment, and seemed to hesitate over a decision; when he spoke again, it coincided with letting the backs of his fingers brush the little wave of hair back from Hannibal's brow, just once. 'Things that might have become of you, if you made different choices. If someone came into your life at another time, or not at all. Missed opportunities seized, neglected paths taken. Narrowly-avoided mistakes indulged.'

He looked up at Will, wholly absorbed in reading his expression. One side of Hannibal's face was lit warmly by the fire; the other was in shadow. 'Many times. Tell me one of your other lives, Will.'

Will closed his eyes. 'I live in a cottage, somewhere in Tuscany. There's a garden, plenty of light—you know that sort of,' he breathed out a soft laugh at himself, 'terra cotta Italian light. A feeling of warmth baked-in, slightly brittle. I think I'm a painter, or… I don't know. Certainty blurs in and out. I might build furniture. And in this life, I never learn Italian.'

'Why not?' said Hannibal.

'Means I don't have to talk to anyone. I can do a little drawing of what I need and hand it to a shopkeeper in town, mime questions. The old woman at the grocer's eventually wrote down what I get every Sunday, so I can just hand the piece of paper to whichever of her sons is behind the counter at the time. I have a suspicion that I eat more olives than are technically good for me, more wine, a lot of crusty bread. Some late afternoons, when the sun's starting to duck its head, I go out onto the patio and lay down on the hot tiles and just _cook_ for a while, that sort of stiff heat that makes everything feel like it's made of one continuous piece.'

Hannibal just listened, watching him.

'For some reason, I try to learn classical guitar,' Will went on, 'since it seems to mesh so well with the setting.' He smiled. 'Doesn't work. I think I just don't have a head for the kind of stringed instruments that don't have a keyboard. I don't have internet or anything, so when I'm thinking about a song, I can't just look it up to refresh my memory. I do a lot of ad-libbing jazz standards while I paint, but not in the garden, because this gangly old mama cat comes and yells at me to keep it down.'

Hannibal's eyes were bright. 'That's presumptuous of her.'

'Yeah, well, I'd tell me to keep it down, too, butchering _Satin Doll_ like that.' Will let his hand drift back, and he ran his fingers gently, tentatively, through Hannibal's hair. 'Tell me about one of yours.'

'I live in a single room,' he said, his eyes falling closed at Will's touch. 'Barren of true character yet pretending to ostentation, and a mockery of luxury. The light is strange, and there are only three walls.'

'What's the fourth wall?' Will teased him. 'Broken?'

'A vast window, undressed and open to all who might want to peer inside,' said Hannibal. 'People I love come and look at me, like a beast in captivity. I never feel quite like myself, and I goad them until they seek to do me harm, simply because I'd prefer their scorn to the cold glare of compassionless scrutiny.'

'Why do you live there?' said Will. 'Why not go someplace else?'

'I must wait,' said Hannibal, and his voice was peaceful, like he was perfectly content with that.

'For what?'

'For my love to come home again.' He seemed to smile a little, at that. Then Hannibal opened _Flowers of Ancient History_ , and began where they left off.

Upon reaching the end of the chapter and closing the little volume, he said, 'You know there are things I haven't told you.'

'You don't say?'

'I'm serious, Will.'

The tone of Hannibal's voice has shifted, and Will frowned. 'So tell me.'

'I fear you'll throw me out,' said Hannibal, though he only sounded mildly concerned. 'Spurn me, and regret all that has occurred between us so far. Set the dogs on me, perhaps.'

Will couldn't help it. 'Dear _God_ ,' he said, with a mock-gasp, 'are you having second thoughts? If you leave me at the altar, I swear I'm coming after your ass with my shotgun.'

'Nothing could be further from the truth, I promise you.'

'So what gives? I _know_ there's things I don't know. Of course, there are. Sometimes people are married for twenty years and still have shit to learn; you've only just moved in.' Will didn't second-guess how easily he thought of them as already married, and in the same category as people who (according to informative articles on immigration law) intend, from the start, to establish a life together. 'All I know for certain is that I…' Will gestured with his other hand, _'don't,_ ever.'

'Philosophical of you,' said Hannibal.

'What can I say? Exasperation dredges up the Socratic in me.'

Will rested the backs of his fingers against the bolt of Hannibal's jaw. In some lights, it looked like Hannibal was all bones, a death's-head in pleasing raiment to fool the unwary.

But what kind of thought was _that_? Not a Normal Person thought, that's for sure. One more reason Will wasn't a catch. If you were unlucky enough to catch this one, you should probably know what's good for you, and throw him back.

'How about,' said Will, 'you tell me a thing, and I tell you one back.'

'Very well,' said Hannibal, without hesitation. 'I killed a man, once.'

Will let that wait for a few ticks before he said, 'You're not joking, huh.' He shook his head slightly. 'And here I was, about to add "just to watch him die," now I feel a little… _gauche_.'

'I recall you telling me early on that I was meant to say "whatever I damn wanted," to you,' Hannibal pointed out. 'I've been nothing but honest, since.'

'What did you kill him for?' said Will.

'You don't assume I killed him simply because I felt like it?'

Will shrugged, and went back to stroking Hannibal's hair. 'You're talking to Professor Weirdmurder, remember. It's never just because you happen to feel like it at the time, there's always more depth. Usually _decades_ of depth, the chain that you follow back to the Cause.'

'To vulnerability,' said Hannibal. 'You're right.'

'So, what was your,' Will shaped the word with care, to avoid any hint of derision, 'vulnerability?'

'I wonder if you might guess.'

Will rolled his eyes briefly. 'Gee, I don't know, did he say you were overdressed?'

'I'm _never_ overdressed,' Hannibal countered lightly, a little smile skimming the edges of his expression. 'You wound me.'

Will didn't miss a beat. 'You wounded _him_. Did he look at you funny? Try to serve you Hot Pockets?'

'I can gladly say that I've never eaten a Hot Pocket,' said Hannibal.

'Did he insult your mother?' With every miss, Will wanted to try harder, and also tease him more. 'Steal your secret recipe?'

'Perhaps I stole a secret recipe from him,' said Hannibal.

'And bumped him off to keep him quiet,' said Will, with a hint of wry appreciation. 'Good thinking. It's not plagiarism if they're unpublished and dead.'

Hannibal looked up at him, examining his reaction. 'You seem untroubled by my confession, Will.'

'Look, the simple act of Killed A Guy is not so staggering an undertaking as to be outside of the realm of regular life experience,' Will explained. 'Half the people I've known in a professional capacity have killed a guy, at some point, whether by action or inaction, or, uh. Legal action.'

He let his fingers tighten just a little in Hannibal's hair, then relaxed them again, just to see what would happen. The slight change in Hannibal's breathing was a pleasant surprise.

'So yeah, I'm not troubled so much as curious. Now, if you'd said that you killed a guy,' Will went on, 'and scooped out his eyes so you could put robin's eggs in the sockets, then accelerated the decay under heat lamps until the birds hatched, and then did that six more times over the course of a long weekend, yeah, that might raise some eyebrows. If you strapped him to a remotely-operated carousel horse powered by gutted lawn mower parts, and drove it into a church with a big sign around his neck saying "I'd like to make a return"? Absolutely. One hundred percent heebie-jeebies material. But there's a lot of reasons a regular person might kill.'

'Am I a regular person?'

'No,' said Will, 'but you're not Evil Minds Museum material.' He moved his hand against the side of Hannibal's neck, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse. 'I understand if you don't want—'

Hannibal didn't let him finish. 'He was trespassing.'

Will remembered the scans of old photos, the rolling acres and dark, primeval woods of the Lecter estate in Lithuania. 'So, what, you… shot him?'

'Trespassing is never the only crime intended, Will, as I'm sure you know.'

'You did shoot him.'

'My sister shot him,' Hannibal said. 'I made sure it _took_.'

Will looked into the fire again, for a long few minutes. Then, 'I was responsible for a woman's death.'

Hannibal looked up at him, a soft edge of concern in his expression. 'How so?'

Will let out a long breath. 'It's not the same as yours, I know that. It's not even really on the same map.'

'But in your mind, our experiences overlap.' Hannibal reached up, and touched Will's cheek briefly. 'Don't undermine the events that have shaped you, Will. I certainly won't.'

Will found that he couldn't look at him, then. He was too afraid that he might see something in Hannibal's eyes that proved that it— _this_ could never work, that Will wasn't good enough, so he tipped his head back against the sofa and looked at the golden glow of the firelight as it slow-danced along the ceiling.

'I wonder sometimes if she could have had a good life, if I hadn't wrested control away from her,' he said. 'But at the same time, I don't care. I killed her because I didn't want her to _exist_. How selfish.' Will shook his head. 'That's the kind of thing that shows up on my PowerPoint presentations for class, you know. "She shouldn't have existed, so I destroyed her" is, uh. Kind of a theme.'

'If I'm not an Evil Minds exhibit, then neither are you,' Hannibal told him. 'Besides, you didn't murder her.'

Will convinced himself that it was all right to look at him, again, even though he felt a little knot of apprehension in his throat. 'I didn't?'

'No,' said Hannibal. 'You changed her. If you hadn't, we would never have met.'

'Wouldn't have liked her, anyway,' said Will, trying to lighten the mood. 'She hated flowers. And romance, and _whimsy_ , anything that might seem too… delicate. Kind of a hardass, we never got along. Too many differences of opinion.'

'Do you like romance, Will?'

Will laid his hand over Hannibal's, over the book. 'I'm beginning to.'


	5. Accustomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Just don't let him try you too high. Hannibal's tastes can be a little,' she gestured slightly with her fork, 'adventurous.'  
> 'Are we still talking about food?'  
> She tried to put off her answer by taking a bite, but Will steepled his fingers and waited with dramatically rapt attention. 'A little of column A,' said Alana, 'little of column B. And columns C through… F.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of this chapter is Decidedly Lewd, and upped the rating. not full-on smut, and i don't know your life, but it probably wouldn't be wise to listen to this chapter at work or, you know, in the car with any lilchiyens you may have in your possession. not that that's a thing people do
> 
> hat-tip to will for so generously allowing me to cyclically plagiarize myself (and himself) for the sake of heavily symbolic narrative and inflicting Gay Pains
> 
> here's this chapter's audio:  
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1tse2yco-VKGkrDo9quHzdp5O0PhR1jj0)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/772042/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20five.mp3)

'This is stupid,' said Will.

Hannibal was driving him to work, since they hadn't yet acquired a second car. Instead of using his phone to help with navigation, Hannibal said that he preferred for Will to tell him where to turn.

'And yet you indulge me,' Hannibal replied.

Will had gotten a legal pad out of his bag and was writing directions to various shopping centers, drawing rough little maps next to them. 'You could just look it up. Y'know, like a normal person.'

'I'll learn a great deal more by discovering what landmarks you deem important.'

'Still stupid,' said Will.

'Still curious,' said Hannibal. 'You said to take a right, here?'

'Yeah, see the farmhouse through the trees, with the blue barnstar?'

Hannibal glanced over at him and smiled, as the turn signal ticked. 'I'm learning already.'

The previous night, after the fire had burned low and they'd sat together in comfortable silence for some time, Will had stretched his arms, and prodded Hannibal so he'd move.

'I should head to bed,' Will told him.

Hannibal sat up. 'Must you?' There was only faint disappointment in his voice, but it was there.

'Gainfully employed,' said Will, as a reminder. 'If I don't sleep, my students notice.'

'People noticing your discomfort shouldn't be the only motivation for taking care of yourself,' said Hannibal.

'Thanks, _Mom_ , I'll remember that.' Will stood up. 'You should probably get some shut-eye, yourself, since you'll be getting lost all over town tomorrow.'

'I never get lost,' said Hannibal. 'I find a new destination, for a time. Often, it's far more pleasurable than what I originally intended.'

'You and your improvising.' Will felt that little prickling at the back of his neck—it was becoming a common thing, damn him—and he looked away. 'It's a little different if you get stranded in the ass-end of nowhere, but suit yourself. I'll, um. I'll see you in the morning.'

'Will.'

He stopped, turning back. Hannibal was sitting at the edge of the sofa cushion, and reached to take Will's hand, kissing the backs of his fingers.

'Thank you,' said Hannibal. 'For everything.'

Will frowned in disagreement, glanced down at their joined hands. 'I haven't _done_ anything.'

'Perhaps not by your estimation.'

'It's the only one I have to go on.'

Hannibal got to his feet. 'Not anymore.'

He pulled Will closer to him, without urgency, one hand at Will's waist, the other against his cheek. Will felt like he could sink into that touch forever, into its warmth and comfort and _security_.

'May I kiss you?' said Hannibal.

Will's gaze flicked between Hannibal's eyes and his lips. 'You didn't ask before.'

'I'm asking now.'

'I don't require the usual social niceties,' Will pointed out, 'since they barely show up on my radar, anyway.'

Hannibal gave him a look that was half amused, half intrigued. 'Are you saying I ought to have my way with you, Will?'

'I'm saying that you don't have to tiptoe around desire.' He swallowed, licked his lips briefly. Tried to calm his heartbeat, to no avail. 'If you _do_ desire. You know what I mean.'

'I do,' said Hannibal.

'Know what I mean?'

The heat of his gaze was intoxicating. 'Know what I want.'

Will took a slow breath, ignoring the little hitch in the middle of it. He gently tipped his head, practically nuzzling against Hannibal's hand.

God, why was this so comfortable, so _right_ , when everything else felt sharp and difficult and unwelcome? Pain would come eventually, Will knew—it always did. Might as well enjoy what he could, for now. Savor it. Even so, Will felt like this didn't belong to him, like he was somehow stealing it from someone more capable, more deserving of affection. But a period of scarcity can so easily lead to theft, and this was a luxury Will never thought could be his.

'Yes,' he said, barely above a whisper. 'Kiss me.'

And Hannibal did, and Will felt that same crashing-waves-and-stars-aligning feeling as before, and he felt like a _massive_ cliché because of it, by the way, but he didn't care. This was too good to let his self-doubt detract from it.

They kissed, and Will didn't want to stop but he made sure they did, because he really did need to go to bed. They went to their respective bedrooms and changed into what they would sleep in, and then reconvened in the hall, and kissed again, unable to help it. They went to brush their teeth, reflected side by side in the little rectangle of the bathroom cabinet mirror, and, for good measure, they kissed after that, too.

Feeling warm and thrumming and sure of himself, Will murmured against Hannibal's neck, 'Walk me to my door?' and Hannibal obliged, giving him another kiss, soft and sweet.

'Goodnight, Will,' he said. 'Wake me if you need me.'

Staring at his bedroom ceiling in the dark a few minutes later, Will went around in circles about that. What did Hannibal mean? Will should wake him in the event of a nightmare? All right, that was probably it. They had, after all, discussed the possibility of Will's disturbing subconscious disrupting sleep for both of them, and Hannibal's willingness to help.

Made sense.

But _wake me if you need me_ could also mean, well, something else. Will could push open Hannibal's bedroom door, which he left off the latch, move quietly across the room and fold back the covers, climb into his bed. Will could press up against him in the dark, crook one leg over Hannibal's, draw him into sleepy kisses that grew more heated, soft sounds of approval and pleasure as Will's fingers slid beneath—

(All right, settle down. You need to sleep.)

And now it was morning, cold and foggy. Hannibal had cooked breakfast, and packed lunch for Will—which, judging by yesterday's offerings, was going to feel much too decadent to have come out of a cooler bag. So Will wrote down directions, scribbling something out now and then, wondering why his list of responsibilities in this arrangement was so short, and why Hannibal seemed to enjoy doing so much for him.

After all, what kind of person genuinely enjoyed fussing over someone? Not that Hannibal actually _fussed_ , but compared to being alone, it felt like a lot more attention than was entirely rational.

Spring, as it was still early days, was in an unpredictable mood, and Hannibal had checked the weather while Will showered; he found Will's heavier overcoat in the hall closet, draping it over the back of the couch with Will's scarf and gloves. He'd made sure Will's laptop and charger were in his work bag, and had set it by the door; he checked that Will's phone was fully charged, as well, and took care of the dogs' morning needs before he'd started cooking. As he had the day before, Hannibal went about his tasks with a veritable spring in his step and a song on his lips, and Will thought it was a little ridiculous, but it also warmed his heart.

'I think I've figured out your secret,' said Will, flipping to a new page of his notepad to describe landmarks on the way to the nearest farmer's market. 'The reason you went about things the way you did, the reason you picked me.'

Hannibal glanced at him, looking amused. 'Say on; I love hearing your analysis.'

'Simple,' said Will. 'You're fucking obnoxious.'

'Am I?'

'Very,' Will said. 'But see, the thing is, I find _everyone_ obnoxious, so you manage to get away with it.'

'And you once claimed you weren't accommodating,' said Hannibal with a smile. 'I'm grateful for your patience.'

'It might wear too thin one of these days,' Will warned him, drawing a compass rose at the corner of the page.

'I look forward to it.'

Will huffed a laugh. 'Right. I bet you're _so_ eager to see me snap. Professional curiosity?'

'Not at all,' said Hannibal. 'Allowing yourself to express anger is far different from "snapping", Will. You should feel free to contradict, or indeed confront me, whenever you see fit.'

'I'll bear that in mind.'

'I hope you do.' They were stopped at a light. 'Straight on?'

'Yeah. Once it's green, obviously.'

'I think I can handle the basics of traffic law,' said Hannibal.

'What about intermediate-to-advanced immigration law?' said Will. 'I still feel like it's some kind of alien ritual that I can't even begin to grasp.'

'For the moment, we simply exist within one another's spheres, and wait on certain forms to be approved before we address additional ones. It's really not as stressful as you make it out to be, Will. I have things in hand, you needn't worry.'

There were a lot of things Will might say about Hannibal taking things in hand, but he resisted, and drew his crooked maps.

* * *

Alana sat across from Will at one of the tables in the faculty lounge, watching with interest as he got out his lunch.

'I can't believe you get a Hannibal Lecter bento box every day now.'

'Honeymoon phase,' said Will. 'Bet you it won't be every day.'

'I bet it _wi-ill_ ,' said Alana, grinning. Then, after getting a good look at one of the items Will had opened, she said, 'Surely you didn't have saffron around the house already? Not very meat-and-potatoes of you.'

'I picked some up before he arrived,' said Will. 'Among other things.'

(He was never going to admit that condoms had been among the _other things_ , not even to someone who was essentially his best friend, who happily told Will about her bad dates and the occasional fling.)

'Have you been initiated into the inner circle yet?' said Alana.

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' Will chuckled. 'He's not a damn… _Freemason_ , jeez.'

Alana just raised an eyebrow at him. 'What all has he cooked for you?'

Will told her.

'Mm, I see, I see.' She chased a segment of clementine around in her salad, making sure she got several different elements on her fork for a single bite. 'Let me know when organs get in on the action.'

'I'll leap out of bed and text you immediately,' said Will wryly. 'Maybe you should have a sip of your drink, Alana, you sound a little thirsty.'

She laughed. 'I mean cooked ones.'

Will gave her a look. 'What, like liver and onions? Welcome to the South, Alana, people eat that all the time.'

'What about liver and everything else?'

Will had to wait a long moment to respond, because his first bite of food was too good to hurry over for the sake of something so prosaic as conversation. It was so richly layered with flavors that Will wondered how he'd enjoyed just plain salt-and-pepper fare for so long.

'He doesn't strike me as the type to dish up a haggis or something,' said Will, 'but even considering his relatively brief track record, I'd try it.'

Alana finally opened her little bottle of sparkling water. 'Ever eaten brains?'

'Not that I'm aware of.'

'How about heart?'

'What, like chicken hearts? You make it sound like it's a big deal. It's just meat.' Will took another bite of what Hannibal had made him, eyes falling closed briefly. 'Trust me,' he said, 'when you've experienced the dubious joys of living on Kraft Singles and saltine crackers from the dollar store, any meat meal is welcome.'

Alana acknowledged that with a nod. 'Just don't let him try you too high. Hannibal's tastes can be a little,' she gestured slightly with her fork, 'adventurous.'

'Are we still talking about food?'

She tried to put off her answer by taking a bite, but Will steepled his fingers and waited with dramatically rapt attention. 'A little of column A,' said Alana, 'little of column B. And columns C through… F.'

'Oh, and I'm _not_ adventurous?' Will ribbed her.

She laughed. 'Far be it from me to imply—'

'I'll have you know made my own sushi, once.'

'I remember.'

'And lived.'

'Against the odds.' Alana leaned forward a little and said, in a stage whisper, 'If you ever think something is gross, just tell him.'

'Why the veil of secrecy?' said Will.

'I don't want to be responsible for giving you bad relationship advice, more than my career's worth.'

'You know me, Alana,' said Will. 'I'll eat anything. I'm sure I'll survive.'

She lifted her bottle of Perrier, as if to toast him. 'Godspeed.'

* * *

Hannibal tapped the bell on the counter, and looked around while he waited for someone to come out of the back of the shop. There was a fresh, inviting scent on the chilly air, by which Hannibal could tell that the business was one you could trust: No hidden hint of ammonia, and the cuts in the case were their appropriate color, lacking the unnatural carbon monoxide-treated hues one might see in a supermarket case. There was a lot of white tile, stainless steel, and framed community awards; the sign over the door read _Ben Dovid Kosher Butchers, Est. 1963._

A young man with glasses and tightly-curled payot emerged from the kitchen. 'Well, I'll be, it's an early bird! You're first in today,' he said, with an amiable drawl. Steam had come through the swinging door with him, and he followed Hannibal's curious eye. 'Aaron's jist kasherin' the backup marinade bowls. What can I getcha?'

Hannibal gave him the list.

'New round here, ain't you? I'm Oren.' He nodded in the direction of the plate glass window, through which Will's truck could be seen parked at the curb. 'Friend of Mr Graham's?'

'His fiancé,' said Hannibal, watching him weigh things. 'I've just come over from Europe, to live with him.'

Oren made a little noise, _well, what do you know!_ 'I dint know Mr Graham was gay!'

'I'm inclined to think that he isn't,' said Hannibal, with a smile. 'Which means he's in good company.'

Oren snipped a length of twine off the spool on the wall, and began to wrap parcels of meat in white paper, tying them securely closed. 'Takes all sorts, I always say. When's the weddin'?'

'We haven't decided.'

'Love a good weddin', myself! All my sisters've had theirs in the past three years, the freezer's full of cake. Got family comin' out for it, y'think?' He started putting the little parcels into a thick brown paper sack, the kind without handles.

'Neither Will nor I have living relations,' said Hannibal, 'though I think a few of my friends back in Paris would indulge in a great deal of melodrama, if I failed to send them invitations.'

'Hooh! Paris, huh? I've never been out the country, is it really like in movies?' He rolled over the top of the sack, pressing crisp creases for every fold. 'All tiny cars zippin' and everybody in sidewalk cafés?'

 'On some streets,' Hannibal told him, 'but by and large, Paris is like many other cities. Loud and filthy, a combination of hard-edged modernity and glorious decay.'

'Sounds _fantastic_. Farthest I've ever been is DC for a school trip—sometimes I reckon I'll never do anything interesting.'

'Ah, the fear of every youth.' Hannibal smiled a little. 'You've got plenty of time.' He tried to gauge Oren's age through the beard, which already had a tiny hint of grey in it. 'Early twenties, aren't you?'

'Yep, I'm a youngin',' said Oren. 'Can't complain, I guess. You want me to put this on your beau's tab?'

Hannibal considered this, and the fact that he and Will hadn't yet begun the process of combining their finances, as was required for their marriage to be deemed legitimate. 'Yes, thank you.'

As he rang him up and made note in a ledger, Oren said, with a good-natured chuckle at himself, 'Don't think I'll ever find me a good match. I'm twenty-two and I feel old as dirt, like I gotta run to keep up with everybody else. You ever felt like that?'

'I never saw it as keeping up,' said Hannibal, taking his purchases. 'I prefer to think of it as snapping at their heels.' He gave him a slight nod. 'It's a pleasure to have met you, Oren.'

'You too, Mister—shoot! I didn't ask your name, my bad.'

'Dr Lecter,' said Hannibal.

'Been real nice chattin' with you, sir! Come on back, all right?'

Beyond the little port-hole window of the kitchen door, fogged with steam, someone (Aaron, presumably) was singing loudly over the sound of a power sprayer. Little mobiles hung from the ceiling, here and there, and the tables for the lunch counter portion of the shop were inset with old photos and children's drawings under the plexiglass surfaces. If Will had a tab at this establishment and was enough of a regular that someone recognized his car, that meant Will liked the place. And it's not as if it wasn't charming—it reminded Hannibal of his favorite in Paris. A good family-operated butcher shop had the feeling of a liminal space, a comfortable holding pattern between death and fulfillment.

Hannibal slipped a bill into the tip jar. 'I certainly will.'

* * *

Will had a working period in the middle of the day, which he typically spent grading tests, keeping an eye on faculty obligations he happened to be avoiding at the time, meeting with one of his students about their thesis, and lying on the floor of his office.

He did this to straighten his back out, and to press his shoulders into a spiky plastic ball the size of an orange, which he kept in his desk drawer. A little over a decade of binding, hunching, hiding in his clothes had left him with abysmal posture and more kinks in his spine than one of those long curly kitchen phone cords. Will had foolishly assumed that surgery would alleviate that particular issue, because after a while it had become difficult to tell how much of his back pain was the factory settings (so to speak) and how much was acquired. Now, a few years past the operating table and with a lingering, tingling deadened sensation at the peaks of the incisions where they wrapped around his sides, Will did his best to stand up straight, even when the scars pulled from it. Sometimes he succeeded; other times, he looked aggressive, or like he had a stick up is ass. Some days, he still slouched, because it still felt safer.

Will was on the floor, now, bearing down against the massage ball so that it bored into the hollow of his left shoulder blade. He held his phone above him, flicking through an album of photos.

Two months ago, Hannibal had gone to Switzerland, for the International Conference on Clinical Psychology and Neuroscience. He'd given a couple of talks, participated in three different panels, and, due to how busy all of this was, he didn't get on Skype for four days. Will couldn't blame him, obviously—this was a huge deal, lots of big names, Hannibal could casually mention his upcoming book to colleagues and other interested parties. But nevertheless, Will resented it.

Damn all conferences, Will had thought. But on the other hand, conferences! Great! Hannibal was getting the attention his work deserved, so that was good. On the _other_ other hand, Will missed him, felt the pain of his absence like a phantom limb, and was acutely aware of how weird and obsessive that probably was.

True, they'd essentially spoken at every opportunity, ever since that first call in the autumn. Nearly every day, for _months_. When they couldn't speak face to face, they texted, and sent each other recordings, plain audio as well as videos. At night sometimes, Will would lay with his phone beside him on his pillow and ramble for nearly twenty minutes, talking about his day at work, what birds had landed on the feeder that morning, anything that came to mind, and then he would email it to Hannibal to listen to when he got up. Hannibal, in turn, would record for Will from beside the fire in the library, or would set his tablet atop his harpsichord while he composed, making little comments and asking for Will's opinion.

And yes, they'd been flirting, essentially from day one. Will didn't see himself as the sort of person who _did_ that, much less with a near-stranger, but he found that with Hannibal, it came to Will easily, a latent talent he'd never stumbled upon before. And as time went on, and Will practiced against Hannibal's own quick wit, it became both comfortable and more challenging. But—here's the difficult part—due to Will's particular predicaments, such as they were, when it came to interfacing with others, he never quite knew when it was only a game, and when Hannibal might truly mean it. This cyclic doubt went on for _three months_ , well into their actual engagement.

But then Hannibal went to that conference, and Will had to endure the doubt and fear and second-guessing without being able to quip sardonically about it at the man in question. Will gnawed the problem in his mind, and would type plaintive statements into their chat window, backspacing irritably without ever hitting send.

_I miss you._

_I miss you._

_I hope you're all right._

_Damn it, I miss you._

_I can't wait to hear your voice again, it's like I'm starving for it. I keep listening to your messages until your voice is all that fills my head, and I can rearrange the words into new things. You tell me you're pleased that I've been so patient, that I haven't pestered you. You tell me I'm your favorite, and that you missed me so much you ached. You tell me a lot of things._

_I bet there's like a hundred people at that conference who would kill for your number._

_I miss you._

_I desperately require your attention._

God, he was needier than he'd ever feared. What a thing to learn about yourself, so late in the game.

But then, early one morning, Will's phone noised on the bedside table, and he snapped into wakefulness, snatching it to see what had arrived:

A warmly-lit photo of Hannibal reclining in a hotel bed, its dove-grey sheets slightly disheveled. Hannibal looked sleepy and content, and there was a great deal of him—just enough—to see.

_I've missed you terribly, Will,_ he wrote. _Thank you for being patient with me._

Will basked in that, for a moment, before he replied. _You're up early._

_You're up late. Or did I wake you?_

_Don't worry about it_ , Will told him.

_I've thought of little but you, and I confess that there were moments when I could have slipped away, but didn't._

_You're at a work thing_ , Will reasoned.

_I've done worse at a work thing,_ Hannibal replied. _I missed you so._

Will took a steadying breath. _You could've said something, idiot._

_I feared you might find my preoccupation with you too… clingy._

He remembered their first conversation, and winced at himself. That was the Will Graham way, though, wasn't it? Dig your own grave before somebody else gets the chance.

_I like you clingy._

_You really wouldn't._

_Shut up. I know what I like._

It was a couple of minutes before Hannibal replied, and Will worried he'd fucked up, but then:

_I could make it up to you._

It didn't seem possible that Will had been asleep just moments ago, because now he was wide awake and wondering. _Hmm, I doubt that. You know me, I nurse a grudge for a thousand years. You'd have to go above and beyond to really get my attention._

_I'm at your mercy, Will._

Will sat up and switched on the light, and when he quickly typed his reply, there were a lot of typos he had to double back and correct. _That's a compelling image._

_Would you like another compelling image?_

_Try me._

Hannibal did.

Will had to remind himself that this might still be part of the game, part of the challenge. They were building a believable lie, weren't they? This was just one more element of the plot of their long-distance romance: time away from their usual mode of communication, yearning, apologies, a leap forward in intimacy. If it was calculated, it was a slick move. You could take screenshots, save things, accumulate more proof.

On the other hand, it's hard to fake that particular silhouette under a sheet.

_What would you have me do, Will? Anything you desire._

Will was about to reply, but Hannibal added,

_If you do desire this, of course. If not…_

_I do,_ Will typed hastily. _I do, please. Don't go._

He watched the ellipsis oscillate for a few moments as Hannibal composed his reply.

_Tell me what you wish, and I swear to grant it without question._

Fuck. Okay. Breathe. This'll be fine, right? And it was Hannibal's idea. He can't accuse you of being a horny, obsessive weirdo if he's the one who started it. (And, Will told himself, Hannibal was the one who started a lot of their sly teasing, the comments that had grown even warmer and closer since about the three-week mark of their agreement, peppered with implication.)

Will could say whatever he wanted, and if Hannibal didn't like it, it was his own damn fault and he could deal with it. They were perfectly capable of socializing like adults.

_Let me listen to you._

In the present, as Will lay on his office floor and jabbed the tension out of his back, he looked at the photo Hannibal had sent him afterwards. Cheeks flushed with heat, eyes dilated, lips bitten plump and rosy. The sheets were in even further disarray, a small bottle and something of very familiar dimensions just barely visible in the frame of the shot.

Will must have listened to that recording a thousand times. He never checked how often he actually _had_ , because no matter what the number was, he'd feel weird and guilty about it. After the first listen, Hannibal had asked if Will felt he had been adequately repaid, and Will had told him to knock it off and that it had never been repayment in the first place. But hours later, when Will knew Hannibal would be asleep, he'd added, _God, Hannibal. Yes._

Will realized that his earlier assessment of "nothing overtly sexual between them" had been deeply flawed, and completely untrue. Maybe Will had been too suspicious, too accustomed to rejection to embrace that this was real, this was part of their relationship. Just because they weren't interacting directly, in real time, didn't mean that something hadn't occurred.

In fairness, that _was_ the only thing of its kind to ever happen between them.

(But…?)

But Will had wanted more. He kept wanting to ask, to bring it up, to mention somehow that he kept looking at those photos, listening back, over and over. There was so much left to discuss, and they simply _hadn't_ : Did Hannibal always use toys? Was it just something he did alone, or did he prefer a receptive role with other men? Would he think less of Will if… if Hannibal knew that (aside from his mouth and hands) a toy was, essentially, all that Will could wield?

Will excelled at the precise application of denial. He could accept a lot, much of which was frequently alarming or strange, and skillfully redact what he didn't want to deal with at the time. That had been useful for his career, back when he was a cop; later, years of dysphoria had honed it to a vicious point, to a point where he could deny parts of himself with laparoscopic precision.

Why did he want to pretend this hadn't happened? In a futile effort to keep it to himself, to suspend it in amber and never let anything spoil it, never let it break? Hannibal had started it. Hannibal was the one who wanted, first. What would be so bad about acknowledging this? Accepting reality was, generally speaking, a healthy course of action. And Will knew that honestly, it wasn't that he'd been pretending it hadn't happened, it's that he was utterly taken with the mystery of it, the unseen, the shadows on the scrim of his mind as he listened to Hannibal's shaking breaths and eloquent descriptions of what he was doing. The way he whispered, _Will, yes_ , was perfect just as it was, so much so that Will had feared that any further sensory information on the subject might destroy it, this crystalline daydream he'd carried around in the cage of his chest for six weeks.

And now, Hannibal had come home to him. They spoke as freely as they ever had, and body language fell into line with their words, comfortable and easy, with only the slightest hesitation on Will's part. That in itself was a miracle, wasn't it? Will dwelt on the memory of Hannibal's lips on his, the previous night, the warmth and weight of his hands at Will's hips, pulling him gently closer, not insistently, without any unsaid demands. Will got the last word in everything, didn't he?

If he wanted insistent, he would have to insist.


	6. Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will blew out a sigh. 'Look, I'm not a jealous person, all right?' When he turned, Hannibal was watching him, his eyes narrowed a little in thoughtfulness.  
> 'You're accustomed to taking what you can get,' Hannibal observed. 'If someone jerks it away again, do you simply give up?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been sitting around for over a week, finished and ready to go while i lay around making despairing flu noises. thanks for your patience, everybody! fingers crossed that the next one doesn't take as long
> 
> content warning for anybody with a history of ED stuff: this chapter contains the introduction of an oc whom will has taken under his wing, who has a complicated relationship with food. there are no gory details, so to speak, but i figured i'd warn for it regardless.  
> —  
> [gdrive audio](https://drive.google.com/file/d/14QcVPMf8-UsOG9KcFWowEnjumTWne95z/view?usp=sharing)  
> [filehosting audio](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/774785/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20six.mp3)
> 
> [gleamingwholeanddeadly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly) drew some AMAZING ART of Our Fair Idiots:  
> 

When Hannibal returned home that afternoon, he opened the door and stood aside to let the cascade of dogs pour out onto the porch. He set one of the heavier grocery bags down to prop open the screen door, and began to feed the dogs sausages out of a smaller bag from the butcher shop, of which they enthusiastically approved. While they were distracted, Hannibal picked up the box that had been sitting on the damp steps—it was addressed to him.

There was something oddly welcoming, about that. A concrete feeling (somehow more so than unpacking and sleeping in the house), acknowledgement that he lived here, _belonged_ here now.

Will was right to be skeptical of his methods. After all, a doctor of Hannibal's standing should have no trouble acquiring a green card, should he?

But Hannibal had wanted someone to come home to. And the fact of the matter was, he couldn't have predicted how Will made him feel, couldn't have hoped for it, dreamed it might occur, because, quite simply, he'd never felt this before.

Once all of his purchases were brought inside and put in their places, Hannibal got the box cutter from the kitchen junk drawer and slit open the packing tape. Inside, there was shoebox, dark red with a cream-colored silhouette of a bear and a fox on the top. Hannibal slid it out and set it aside, and he broke down the larger box and tucked it out of the way. Then he sat at the kitchen table, and lifted the lid to see what was inside.

It was a pair of slippers. Soft black suede, a thick fold-over cuff of grey shearling all of a piece with its inner lining. Aside from the difference in color, they matched Will's perfectly.

Hannibal texted him.

_Thank you for the slippers, Will. A pleasant surprise._

Hannibal had started on the marinade when the reply arrived. _Thank God for rush shipping. Can't have you getting cold feet, can I?_

_When did you have a moment to order them?_

_You'll get bored if you have all the answers._

Hannibal smiled. _Do you want to know what I'm preparing for dinner?_

_Thought that was against the rules._

_I don't make the rules, Will._

The ellipsis of a message-in-progress strolled back and forth a few times, stopping and starting again, before Will replied: _I like when you surprise me, too._

* * *

Aisha Carby, known by their classmates as Carbs, was the kind of student who respected that their professors had lives of their own. Strangely, a great deal of aspiring agents at the Academy still seemed to labor under the misapprehension that instructors, by and large, existed only in their classrooms and offices. If you ran into a member of the faculty at the local pharmacy—a real one, not the Hogan's Alley version for hostage rescue exercises—it was, to many, as disorienting as accidentally running into a celebrity. (Less of a selfie opportunity, though, of course.) But Aisha's dad was a professor at NC State, and their father was a newscaster for NPR; the idea of authoritative people only existing in one context had never really set in. So it never struck them as odd to ask after someone's well-being, in a genuine not-making-small-talk way, even if that person's official function in their life was to tell them to tighten up their references.

'You're going to get stepped on one of these days,' they said, standing in the doorway of Professor Graham's office, twisting one of their baby-dreads. 'Shoulder acting up again?'

Will got up off the floor; he'd lost track of time, but this wasn't a first. 'Not any worse than usual. You eat?'

'Probably not as much as you've eaten aspirin today. Still having those headaches?'

Will smiled. 'I don't know, are you still nosy?'

The pair of them had gotten into the habit of looking after each other. When you meet on a regular basis to thresh out the details of an assignment that could, in essence, determine the fate of one's career, it could start to feel like you were collaborating rather than simply advising and being-advised. Will had never considered himself the paternal sort (and Carbs was hardly a child), but there were a lot of reasons he felt protective of them, and invested in their success.

Once, Aisha had asked why Will gave so much of a damn, when with other students he seemed distant at best. 'Do you want an answer _aside_ from the fact that you're a gender-nonconforming person of color in law enforcement?' Will had asked. 'Because I can make some up if you give me a second.'

'Oof, that caught me right in the ego. Here I was, assuming you thought I was fun and smart.'

'You are smart,' Will told them. 'But you probably don't want to be what counts as "fun" in my book. I spend my evenings hunched over a magnifying lamp, tying feathers to fish hooks. Take your coolness someplace else.'

In the present, Aisha said, 'I had breakfast.'

'It's four-thirty.'

'It was a… late breakfast.'

'You over five hundred calories yet today?'

'No-o.' Aisha rolled their eyes. 'I already got _two_ dads, I don't need another one. You had the chance to go over the revisions?'

'Yeah,' said Will, taking a seat behind his desk. 'I still think your point is murky in the third section. You know how carefully we have to handle this.'

Their dissertation dealt with incidences of transphobic violence in early life that led to victims becoming violent offenders, themselves, and it was a minefield of complications so far. Just one poorly-chosen turn of phrase could alter the entire endeavor; one misstep could weaponize it, allowing detractors to take an exploration of the results of gendered systemic oppression and use it as support for the idea that trans people are inherently dangerous to society. Not only was it an important piece of work, but Aisha and Will both had personal stakes in it being well-received by the big-hats in their field.

'I'll tinker with it some more,' said Aisha. 'Who sent those flowers?'

'I'll tell you, if you eat lunch.'

'Whoops, didn't bring money for lunch.'

Will opened his insulated bag, took out the remains of what Hannibal had packed him that day, and slid the container across the desk. 'Nice try.'

'I ain't gonna eat your leftovers,' said Aisha, though not with any real vehemence.

'You've done it before.'

'I've done gymnastics competitions before, too, doesn't mean it's on my to-do list right now.'

Will opened the container. 'Fine. Guess I'll just have the rest of this tabbouleh, myself.'

Aisha eyed it. 'Is that pomegranate in there?'

'Yep. And,' Will pointed alongside it, 'skirt steak with this fantastic sauce, look how thinly-sliced it is, you can practically _see_ through it. Melts in your mouth.'

'You're a bad man,' said Aisha, as Will slid the container back over and handed them a plastic fork from the stash he kept in his desk. 'I'm about to eat leftovers-leftovers, and it's your fault.'

'It'll be worth it.'

'Oh, like this didn't come from some kinda yesterday's take-out? Please.'

'Take a bite,' said Will, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms, 'and tell me if that's take-out.'

Aisha gave him a suspicious look, but got a little forkful of tabbouleh and tried it. 'Welp,' they said, 'you win, this is mine. Guess that means you lose, too. Now, who sent you flowers?'

'My fiancé.'

Aisha was sitting back in their chair, too, holding the bento container protectively close, like someone might snatch it away. 'Who cooked this gorgeous mess?'

'Also my fiancé.'

'When the fuck did you get engaged? You don't even _date_.'

'How do you know I don't date?' said Will, mock-offended. 'And don't say "fuck" at me, I'm your teacher.'

'You say "fuck" all the time in class.'

'That's because I'm quoting interrogation tapes.'

'I _know_ you don't date,' said Aisha, 'because you've said you spend your evenings wrapping string around weird little fish lures. What'd you do, hire a matchmaker?'

'We met online,' said Will. 'Aren't you here to discuss your thesis, Carby?'

'Apparently I'm here to steal your food and talk about your love life.' They took another bite, humming with approval and relief. (Will doubted they'd actually had breakfast; often, when they had an appointment with Will, they'd hold off because they knew Will would offer something, and it would be rude to say no, even though it was technically inappropriate in the first place. Despite the social trickiness of the exchange, it worked for them both.) 'We could talk about _my_ love life, if you want to balance the scales.'

'I'll bite. How's Miri?'

'Good.'

'Very informative.' Will was highlighting a few lines of the most recent draft of Aisha's paper. 'Still doing her physical therapy?'

'Until the end of days, or that's what it feels like.' They twirled a little ribbon of steak around the plastic fork. 'Her mama keeps trying to tell her to get one of those little grabber-hands, but she won't hear that.'

'It's her choice. Let her know I miss her in class,' said Will. 'It's a rare treat to find a student who pays that much attention.'

Aisha chuckled. 'And what about me?'

'Nah, you're too good,' said Will, smiling. 'One of these days I'll be out of a job.'

'I don't think I could stand teaching,' they said. 'For one thing, I'd tell people like Joey Cameron to fuck off, and then _I'd_ be out of a job.'

'He's not that bad,' said Will.

'He is if you've got tits.'

Will huffed. 'Thank God I left mine in my other pants.'

'Thank God I never sprouted any,' said Aisha. 'What's he like?'

'Who?'

'Your fiancé, keep up.'

'Why do you assume I'm marrying a man? It's not exactly something I shout from the rooftops.'

Aisha bounced their eyebrows at him. 'I saw some fancy-man drop you off this morning. Unless you've got a chauffeur now?'

'On _my_ salary? I can't even afford valet parking.' Will put the cap back on the highlighter. 'He's rich, European, and handsome. What more could you ask for?'

'A woman,' Aisha pointed out, forkful of barley suspended between the container and their mouth. 'But that's just my brand. Is he nice?'

'I don't know if a nice person would hang around for long,' said Will. 'He gives as much as he gets.'

_'Oo-ooh.'_

Will gave them a look. 'Settle down.' He spun the little sheaf of papers around for them to see. 'Now, tell me what the hell you were trying to convey in this paragraph.'

* * *

Hannibal was leaning against the side of Will's truck, waiting for him to emerge from the faculty entrance. His breath steamed in the air, and the sunset pinked the few rags of cloud overhead. He caught sight of a familiar face, just as she spotted him from a row deep in the parking lot.

Alana came over. 'Fancy meeting you here, the future Mr Graham.'

Hannibal couldn't help smiling, and ushered her into a hug. 'How have you been, Alana? I should have written to tell you I was coming.'

'Or, you know, that you got engaged to a dear friend of mine that I could've _sworn_ I'd mentioned to you before! Oop,' the toggle button of her coat had hooked the buttonhole of Hannibal's own coat, 'you caught me.'

'It seems I have.' Hannibal helped extricate her. 'I don't think we've been in touch since…' he trailed off.

'That symposium in Boston,' said Alana with a nod. They exchanged a look, and mutually agreed not to discuss the subject further. 'Will loved the flowers, in case he hasn't told you.' She raised an eyebrow. 'I never knew you were such a romantic—I suppose because I prefer beer to flowers.'

'That needn't mean flowers were off the table,' said Hannibal.

Alana breathed out a laugh. 'I think the table was crowded enough already. Besides, you served me a dish with flowers in it, once. It wasn't violets, was it? Refresh my memory.'

'Pansies, and lavender.'

'Fitting, if you consider the company.' She smiled. 'But you never do anything accidentally, do you, Hannibal? You covered a bouquet in glitter and set it loose on Will Graham.'

'He didn't have to touch it,' Hannibal noted.

'If you know Will well enough to be engaged to the man,' said Alana, with fondness, 'you know he's a very… _tactile_ person.'

'Is he, indeed?'

She leaned up against the side of the truck with him, watching the door for Will's arrival. 'As if you hadn't noticed. Plays with your hair, doesn't he?'

Hannibal held dear the memory of Will brushing the lock of hair from his brow, the slight tightening of his grip for just an instant, the way a thin shiver of pleasure had sparkled down the back of Hannibal's neck. 'He might.'

Alana crossed her arms, giving Hannibal a teasingly self-satisfied look. 'Mm- _hmm_. Just as I suspected.'

'What did you suspect, Alana?'

'He's got you hooked,' she said, unable to keep herself from smiling, not that she tried. 'You two were made for each other. I bet you can exchange heavily metaphorical implications across the breakfast table until his toast gets cold. Ah, young love!'

Hannibal leaned his shoulder a little against hers, not a nudge but not quite _not_ a nudge. 'And what about you?'

'I like my toast hot.'

'A traditionalist, I see.'

'Oh, yes, very traditional. Butter-side up and everything.'

'That's not what I've heard.'

Alana gave him a brief look of disbelief before she laughed. 'I've missed you. Can't believe you're getting married. I mean, I _can_ believe it, and thank God you found Will, but it's like something out of a dream, you know?'

Hannibal sighed a little, smiling. 'So it is.'

Will stepped outside and made his way towards them, bag over his shoulder. Alana gave him a cheerful little wave, and pushed off from where she leaned.

'Just getting to know your fiancé,' she said. 'Turns out he's the same Hannibal I thought he was, what are the odds of that?'

'Terrible,' said Will. There was a faint sheen of gold on his fingertips, and a little in his hair: Hannibal still leaving his mark on him from a distance. 'Hey, handsome,' he said, tossing his bag behind the passenger seat of the truck. 'How were my directions?'

Hannibal caught Will's hand, gently, allowing Will to decide where he wanted to be. 'I have no complaints; they led me back to you.'

Will hesitated for only a moment, then slid his hand around to the small of Hannibal's back, pulling him closer, drawing him into a kiss. To Will's surprise (but it wasn't a surprise, was it?), Hannibal seemed to melt against him just as Will had done day before yesterday, surrounded by the drone of luggage belts and strangers' conversations. But here it was quiet, and to be observed by a friend was a far different sort of scrutiny than the careless gaze of a hundred unfamiliar eyes. Hannibal leaned into it, one gloved hand sliding through Will's parted coat to rest at his waist, and Will could hear as well as feel the soft sound of contentment in the back of Hannibal's throat.

Will broke the kiss, then added a little extra peck, with a smile chasing after, before he sneaked the car keys from Hannibal's pocket and went warm up the engine.

Hannibal caught sight of Alana's expression, and when Will had started the truck, Hannibal said to her in a low voice so Will couldn't hear, 'You're making faces, Alana.'

'So were you.' She was grinning. 'You two are unbearably cute. I've never seen Will so demonstrative. Then again, I've never seen him even… _date_ , so I guess that's to be expected.'

'Full of surprises, our Will.'

'I didn't think anyone could surprise you.'

'Nor did I.' Hannibal gave her a brief hug of farewell. 'I'm happy to learn that I was wrong.'

In the car on the way home, while they were stopped at a long light, Will spoke up for the first time since they'd pulled out of the faculty parking lot. 'You think I sold it, back there?'

Hannibal's lips still tingled with the ghost of Will's touch. 'I was thoroughly convinced.'

* * *

Will changed out of his work clothes as Hannibal cooked dinner. He liked that they were beginning to establish these little habits—getting comfy in the evening before they ate together, alternating roles with washing and drying the dishes after, tea and Hannibal's book by the fire before bed. Will hoped the distracting, drowsy kissing of the previous night would become a regular occurrence, but he wasn't going to rely on it. Patience was key, and he was still figuring out what he wanted, which end of the stick.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Will suspected that he'd known what he wanted for a long time; it was _acting_ on it that tripped him up. There were so many variables to consider, so many sharp edges upon which their slowly-unfolding relationship might snag. Hannibal hadn't reacted negatively to anything so far, which should have felt like a good sign, but Will wasn't accustomed to things going in directions he wanted. Mounting evidence that Hannibal couldn't be shaken meant that, when the time inevitably came, the straw that broke that calm would feel exponentially worse.

So Will, in a classically self-sabotaging move, kept pushing. Why sit around dreading what might happen, when you could easily solve the fear of the unknown by making it _known_?

He walked into the kitchen, scars in full view. (Act casual. Show that you're comfortable with yourself, or at least that you're trying to be. Show him you're comfortable with _him_. If he's curious, he'll ask.) Will draped his clean shirt and sweater over the back of one of the chairs, going to refill the dogs' water dish, killing time until Hannibal noticed something.

But Hannibal noticed everything, didn't he? Usually in a different order than most. When Will came around to the sink, he saw Hannibal's expression, saw where he was looking.

'When did you get that?' said Hannibal. He gestured, his hand well enough away so that it didn't seem like an attempt to touch without Will's permission.

'Cooking bacon with my shirt off,' Will deadpanned.

'Were there bullets on the stove, as well?'

'Oh, I see we've got a comedian on our hands.' He turned on the tap, filling the water dish. 'Got it in 2002, wouldn't recommend it. If you're in the market for dueling scars, I'm pretty sure a thin slash across the face is much more dashing.'

'I have plenty already,' said Hannibal, turning back to mind the potatoes that were browning in the skillet. 'But thank you for the recommendation.'

Will went and pulled on his shirt and sweater; things seemed to be going according to plan, but he still felt a little odd that Hannibal hadn't mentioned the much more obvious signs of prior wounds. 'You and Alana have a good talk?'

'Yes, brief though it was.' Hannibal flipped a slice of potato over, and seemed pleased with how crisp it had gotten, because he began to turn the others as well. 'Would you be amenable to inviting her for dinner, sometime?'

Will got plates out of the cabinet to set the table. 'Why not? You're friends, we're friends. Seems like it could be nice.'

'Yet you don't typically have guests.'

'That's one way of putting it.' Will gathered up the necessary silverware. 'You don't typically settle for one.'

'Is that what you've heard?'

'That's what I've seen. You don't get sidebars written about you in culinary magazines by just cooking for two.'

When Hannibal replied, it was in that way of his that seemed casual but was definitely loaded. 'Are you jealous, Will?'

Will set the plates down. 'Of whom, Alana or your erstwhile party guests?'

 'Either,' said Hannibal.

Will blew out a sigh. 'Look, I'm not a jealous person, all right?' When he turned, Hannibal was watching him, his eyes narrowed a little in thoughtfulness.

'You're accustomed to taking what you can get,' Hannibal observed. 'If someone jerks it away again, do you simply give up?'

'Deciding to go another direction isn't the same as surrendering,' said Will. 'Anyway, I'm not in control of what other people do, knock yourself out.'

'Jealousy is never about two people alone.' Hannibal checked the dish that was in the oven, deciding to give it more time. 'You fear that others having something will rob you of pleasure, yourself.'

Will rolled his eyes briefly. 'Thanks, Doctor, I'm aware of the difference between jealousy and envy.' He got out the wine and water glasses. 'I like that you have a life,' he said, 'and that you want to build a new wing of it here.'

Hannibal laid a hand gently on Will's arm, and Will paused, glancing at him. 'You are the foundation,' said Hannibal, 'upon which I want to build everything hereafter.'

Will didn't reply—didn't know how to—and they didn't bring it up again over dinner, or when they washed the dishes after, or when they sat before the fire together. Hannibal once again lay with his head in Will's lap, reading, as Will now and again ran fingers through his hair.

'"The Persian monarch having in vain attempted to corrupt him, wrote to him in the style of a master, commanding him to lay down his arms. To which Leonidas replied like a Spartan, _Come and take them._ "'

'Hannibal,' said Will. 'I've got this hitch in my shoulder.'

Hannibal marked their place and set the book aside, sitting up. 'How can I help?'

'I don't know, um. Look at it, I guess?'

'You can just ask me to rub your back,' Hannibal pointed out.

Will laughed, mostly at himself. 'When have I ever directly asked that kind of thing?'

(But they both remembered: _Let me listen to you._ )

Thus, Will found himself seated in front of the couch, his shirt off, as Hannibal sat behind him, pressing his thumbs in firm circles against the stiff muscles of Will's neck and shoulders. When he located the place that always troubled Will—the one usually jabbed into submission by a spiky plastic massage ball—a groan of mingled pain and relief dragged from Will's lips before he could hold it back.

'That's it,' Will encouraged him, 'right there.'

'That's not too hard?' said Hannibal, softly.

Will swallowed against a sigh. 'No, it's perfect.'

Hannibal kneaded the knot of tension, and Will let himself relax, trying to remain unconcerned about the kind of noises he was making. After all, he'd heard Hannibal make plenty of noises, himself.

'Arch back a little into the pressure,' said Hannibal, 'can you do that for me, Will?'

He took a slightly shaky breath. 'Yeah.'

'It will be far more intense, but it will help alleviate the ache once I release it.'

'I'll hold you to that.' Will did as suggested, leaning back, bearing down on Hannibal's fingers. The pain was no longer that dull, radiating burn that it usually was, now focused to a sharp point by Hannibal's touch. Will wanted it to go away, but at the same time, he was surprised to discover that he enjoyed it. This relic of years of hiding, now ground out and banished beneath Hannibal's hands. The pain would return eventually, Will knew—it always did. Might as well enjoy what he could, for now. Savor it.

'Fuck,' he hissed between his teeth, still leaning just as hard, 'that's… a lot.'

'I know,' said Hannibal, his voice low and soothing as he leaned to murmur in Will's ear. 'Do you think you can endure it, Will? I promise it will feel good.'

'Already does,' said Will, 'in a way.'

Hannibal's lips brushed the shell of Will's ear for an instant before he moved back again, making Will shiver. 'I want you to tell me when to move. I'll withdraw, and I want you to lean forward at precisely the same moment, just a bit.'

'All right.' Will took a slow breath. _'Now_.'

He moved, and Hannibal moved, and it was like a taut steel cable had snapped: pain fled, leaving a tingling void in its place, relief so sweet that Will moaned and slumped back against the edge of the couch, between Hannibal's knees. His head fell back, and he allowed it, eyes closed as he enjoyed his first pain-free moments in over a decade.

Will felt the backs of Hannibal's fingers gently trace the side of his face, an affectionate motion. 'Was that good?' Hannibal asked.

Will opened his eyes, looking up at Hannibal above him. It wasn't the most flattering angle, of course; Will could see up his nose, for starters. The fact that Hannibal's upper lip stuck out a little was far more evident when seen from below, and from Will's perspective, all that he could see in Hannibal's eyes was the fire.

'Did I sound like it was good?' Will replied.

'Yes,' said Hannibal, with a curious expression. It wasn't a smile, nor was it free of fondness—hunger, maybe. Or maybe Will couldn't see him properly at all.

'We should go to bed,' Will said, his voice quiet, still tinted with pleasure now that pain seemed far away.

'I agree,' said Hannibal.

'To sleep,' Will clarified, perhaps unnecessarily.

'Yes,' said Hannibal, 'to sleep.'

As they had the night before, they went and brushed their teeth together, which seemed corny but dreamily domestic, and so comfortable that Will wondered why no one ever talked about those kinds of moments.

It wasn't something Will generally thought about, outside of the realm of work stuff—you'd be surprised how many killers do something to a victim's mouth, or place some symbolic object inside—but there's a unique vulnerability when you have something in your mouth, whether it's a toothbrush or a fork, a morsel of food or anything else; this primal self-protectiveness, lest someone jostle you and cause you harm. More so even than one's eyes, the mouth must be protected at all costs: the gateway of both communication and nourishment, key to survival. Yet Will had no qualms whatsoever about what he put in his mouth, when Hannibal was concerned.

He was aware of the obvious connotations of that, and was starting to get used to the idea. After all, what was stopping them? It was a game, wasn't it? Challenging their preconceived notions about themselves, finding out where the line was, tearing down old walls to build new ones that joined up.

In the hall, between their bedrooms, Will caught him in a kiss, pinned him with proximity. One hand entwined with Hannibal's and pressed to the wall, the other curled through Hannibal's hair, firmly but not so tight it would hurt. The hum of approval and pleasure that echoed against the roof of Will's mouth was barbed, almost a purr. Hannibal did nothing to turn the tables or take control of the situation, allowing himself to be moved where Will wanted him, pliant and willing.

'Thank you,' said Will, when he moved back just enough to whisper.

Hannibal hissed in a breath at the feeling of Will's teeth, dragging against his lower lip. 'Is this how you express your gratitude for so simple an act, Will?'

'Might be.' Will dipped his head to nip at Hannibal's neck, just once, but delightfully sharp. 'You complaining?'

'Far from it,' said Hannibal, his free hand against Will's chest, to feel his heart beneath the scars. 'I encourage you to take whatever action would please you, no matter the occasion.'

'Sounds like that could backfire,' Will noted, hooking his fingertips under the waistband of Hannibal's pajama pants. 'On your head be it.'

'I'll embrace any…' his breath hitched, _'consequences_ that might arise.'

'Do you ever stop talking like that?' said Will, with a soft laugh, and kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~if you're the type to leave comments/were going to leave one anyway, i'd appreciate it a lot if y'all would let me know a couple things!~~
> 
> ~~1\. are you a just-text reader or do you listen to the podfic as well? not that i'd stop recording if there wasn't a big response—it's one of the most fun aspects of this story!—i'm just curious since i've never done podfic in this fandom before ♥~~
> 
> ~~2\. how did you encounter this fic? lot of folks came out of the woodwork all of a sudden and idk if like... some Very Good At Fandom Things Person made a rec or if it's just that everybody saw this cornball idea in among other search results and thought 'hmm, i can dig it.'~~
> 
> feedback poll whatsit is closed! thanks everybody for the info :D


	7. Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'They think it's the Shrike, but they can't be sure.' Will leaned on the heels of his hands against the edge of the sink, his eyes shut. 'But there's someone they _know_ can be sure.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to everybody who left feedback in the poll last chapter!
> 
> here's the audio:  
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1aGNu0-6sWkGqZmQrjLN93yZ4UGHxrjgc/view?usp=sharing)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/778540/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20seven.mp3)
> 
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'It's late,' said Will, against Hannibal's neck.

'Yes,' said Hannibal, his head tipped back against the wall. 'It's late.'

'I have work in the morning,' Will pointed out, his hands on Hannibal's hips.

'You do,' Hannibal agreed. 'You should go to bed.'

'So should you,' said Will, kissing between statements. 'Unless you plan on not packing me lunch, in which case, I'm _wounded_.'

'We could go to the same bed,' Hannibal suggested. 'Keep each other accountable.'

'I don't know if you'd approve of the thread-count of my sheets.'

'The last thing to occupy my attention would be your sheets, Will.'

Will laughed. 'Your bed's bigger.'

'I wonder why; you're the one who picked it.' Hannibal's eyes sparkled in the dimly-lit hall. 'I supplied no specifications on that point.'

'I've seen photos of your old bedroom, remember. Anyway, I figured you were the sort who enjoys a good stretch, Mr Hedonist.'

'I don't deny it.' Hannibal let out a slow breath as Will tugged his hips closer. 'I'd enjoy anything you had in mind.'

'Again, sounds like that could backfire pretty badly for you.' Will's hands slid under the edge of Hannibal's shirt, his fingers warm and skimming teasingly along. 'What if I'm into something weird?'

'That depends upon what you consider to be weird. Have you alarmed me so far?'

Will had to admit that he hadn't, though it's not like he'd veered into unusual territory, aside from simply occupying the body he possessed. And Will didn't think that was weird, himself, only that other people might feel that he was.

'I just… don't want to move too fast,' said Will, but he didn't let him go. 'You haven't even been here a week. For all I know, something might happen tomorrow.' But Will's mind kept insisting, _something might happen right now, if you let it_.

'It's your decision, Will.' Hannibal kissed him briefly, then leaned back to look at him. 'I'm perfectly content for things to remain as they are, or to move in another direction.'

Will gave him a long look. 'Why do I get to decide that? Is it because you moved in with me, instead of the other way around—cautiously heeding another man's territory?'

'You decide because I chose to let you,' said Hannibal. 'If you would prefer me to take control of the situation, that would nevertheless be a choice, and I would abide by it.'

Will narrowed his eyes. 'Show me.'

That got a raised eyebrow, in response. 'Show you?'

'You heard. I want to see.'

Will found their positions reversed in less than the span of a heartbeat, Hannibal pinning him with a devouring kiss. His knees felt weak and, as he had the first time, Will melted against him, a soft sound of approval in his chest. Hannibal turned him slightly, and Will found himself taking steps backward as Hannibal guided him, pushing open the door to Hannibal's bedroom.

There was no light on, the moon through the window the only illumination in the jewel-toned room. The space had changed since Will had last been in here: previously blank walls now displayed gilt-framed reproductions of paintings Hannibal had had shipped ahead, and some of Hannibal's own work that he must have particularly valued; there were leather-bound books in the shelves, some with bindings that matched, seemingly coded with sticker-dots. The bed was tightly but elegantly made, with a throw blanket at the foot of it that Hannibal must have brought, himself.

The backs of Will's calves bumped into the edge of the bed, and he went down, purposeful in his descent, pulling Hannibal down with him.

'Now,' Hannibal whispered between kisses, 'take it back.'

Will thought, for an instant, that perhaps he should change their positions once more, but he was comfortable where he was. After all, being on top was just a metaphor, wasn't it? Just words. Don't go too far into your head about it, don't second-guess, just act.

So he stayed, Hannibal positioned over him on the bed, and kissed him with that possessive need that seemed to suit them both so well, and had seemed (if Will wasn't thinking too much about it) to have come out of nowhere. Will unbuttoned Hannibal's shirt, pushing it over his shoulders and only breaking the kiss for a moment to say, _'Off_.'

Hannibal slid from its sleeves and tossed it aside, giving Will a full view of the muscles of his chest and arms moving in the moonlight from between the parted curtains.

Will ran his hands along Hannibal's sides, which seemed slightly ticklish judging by the faint noise of amusement he made in response. They fell to kissing again, without urgency but with a sense of each laying claim to the other; it wasn't competitive, neither trying too hard to assert some idea of dominance. Hannibal straddled one of Will's legs, and as they moved in languorous synchrony, still mostly clothed in thin pajamas, Hannibal's thigh tucked up between Will's.

Will rolled his hips to meet the slight pressure of it, enjoying the ache of wanting more as much as he enjoyed the moment just as it was. He was surprised by, and felt more than heard, Hannibal's hitched intake of breath as Will shifted under him.

'You like that?' Will whispered.

Hannibal rocked against him a little, watching his reaction in the dim light. 'Very much.'

He was backlit, and Will could really only make out the slight reflection of his eyes, and a shine to his lower lip. Will tried to read his expression all the same. 'Why?'

There was a glint of teeth, then, as Hannibal smiled. 'I thought that would be obvious.'

Will scored his nails lightly down Hannibal's side, making him squirm just a little with a soft breath of laughter. 'Indulge me.'

'I enjoy your eagerness, Will,' said Hannibal, bent over him to trail kisses along his neck and jaw once more. 'Knowing you want something I can give you.'

It was an odd way of putting it, and Will wondered why he didn't just say it was clear that Will wanted _him_ , but now really wasn't the time for pedantic discussion. It could have just been the first thing that came to mind, who knows? Will was far too pleased at the moment to allow himself to worry about it.

But even as he set those thoughts aside in favor of further pleasure, Will realized just how tired he was. His head hurt, and his shoulder was starting to twinge again even so soon after such a thorough massage. Will didn't want to be anything less than fully present, for whatever might happen between them.

So he said, with great reluctance, even as he held Hannibal's hips and frotted against his thigh, 'Listen, I'm… this sounds terrible, but I'm _really_ tired. Can we take a rain check?'

Hannibal gave him a quick kiss before he replied. 'Of course, Will.' And he moved to climb off, but Will kept him there with just the pressure of his fingertips.

'I want this,' said Will, just so he could be sure that Hannibal knew, that he understood. 'I want _you._ '

'And I, you,' said Hannibal, 'when you're ready. Would you like to sleep here, tonight?'

Will let him get up and, instead of answering, budged over to make room for him. In drowsy, slightly mussed good-morning photos Hannibal had sent him before, this side of the bed had always been empty, but now it was Will's, at least for the moment.

Sleep would come to them both, with tangled dreams in tilt-shift focus. In the morning, Will would wake to an empty room, a little note on the nightstand saying _Thank you for last night_ , and he would tease Hannibal when he got downstairs to meet him in the kitchen, _Is this how you show your gratitude for simple things?_ And Hannibal would give him a playful look and make a joke about usually having better stationery for it. They would eat together, and kiss goodbye, and Will would drive to work by himself because of that damned appointment he had after his late class, lonesome like he'd never taken the journey alone, before, missing the good-natured bickering of the previous day.

But Will didn't know that, yet. Now, all that he knew, all that mattered, was that he could fall asleep in Hannibal's arms.

* * *

Will set his bag down on the kitchen table and pulled out a chair, sitting down heavily and leaning his elbows on the table. He took off his glasses and scrubbed his hands down his face, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

Since Will had known he'd be working late, Hannibal had packed him extra food, and expressed an intention to stay in and do some research online and various little tasks around the house. Now, night having fallen, Hannibal was at the counter doing prep for the following day's lunch, dicing shallots and sliding them off the edge of his knife into a little dish. 'Has something happened?'

Will took a long breath in through his nose, still covering his face. 'Penny Cohen's dead.'

Hannibal paused, knife poised over the cutting board as he decided how to approach this. He wanted Will to know he could be trusted, that Will could tell him anything and he would understand; but he also knew that Will hated to be fussed over when it came to difficult experiences. If he felt that someone was treating him like he was _fragile_ , he'd lock up tight and could take ages to show that vulnerability again. Thus, Hannibal resumed his task and said, 'Was she a friend of yours?'

'Did you meet Aaron at the butcher shop the other day?' Will let his hands drop, and fiddled with his glasses on the table, folding the temples open and closed with a little plastic _click, click_.

'He was in the kitchen, singing to himself,' said Hannibal. 'But I spoke to Oren, as I've said. Sociable fellow.'

'Aaron's kid sister went to U of M.' Will leaned a little to scratch Ella behind the ears; several of the dogs were gathered around his chair, with expressions of attentive concern. 'Wanted to be a social worker. The Cohens always wanted a daughter, and had three sons before Penny came along. Surprise baby, you know how it goes.' He leaned back in his chair, sighing up at the ceiling. 'They're such a close-knit family, it was rough when she decided to go away to school last fall. And now…' Will trailed off, shaking his head. 'Have you heard of the Minnesota Shrike?'

'Only a little.' That was a lie. 'I remember when you mentioned working on a lecture for your students, about his work.'

'His work,' Will repeated, with a wry huff of laughter. 'That's putting it gently.'

'I often phrase things gently when the subject matter is cause for distress.'

'I'm not distressed,' said Will, leaning forward on his elbow and covering his face again briefly, before getting up, the chair legs screeching a little against the floor. 'I'm fucking _pissed off_.' He needed to feel like he was doing something, even if it was just washing up the couple of prep dishes that were in the sink.

Hannibal watched Will as he came around the counter and turned on the taps. 'You can talk to me,' he said.

'I am talking to you.'

'I meant that you needn't ever feel like you have to subdue your emotional response,' Hannibal added, 'whatever it might be.'

Will stared down into the sink as it filled with water. 'You know what?' he said. 'It's quiet here. I know a few people, have a couple of friends. I have,' he sounded a little embarrassed by this, just enough to notice, and his voice shaped the word like it was sour, _'routines_. And now you're here, and things are so… things seem good.'

'I agree.'

'And I know,' Will went on, 'that this is a coincidence. Someone I sort of knew, someone whose prom pictures I've seen, someone who gave me a hug when she was in the shop one day after one of my dogs passed away, is now dead because someone decided that was _right_.' His jaw was tense. 'I didn't somehow bring this upon other people by existing as a tertiary extra in their lives, a face familiar enough to show up in dreams but you never really think about them.'

'You're right.' Hannibal set his knife down and turned, watching Will's back. If Will knew Hannibal was looking—taking in every shift of his shoulders, the rigid quality to his posture—he didn't show it.

'They think it's the Shrike, but they can't be sure.' Will leaned on the heels of his hands against the edge of the sink, his eyes shut. 'But there's someone they _know_ can be sure.'

Hannibal watched as the water rose, and waited until the last possible moment to reach over and turn off the faucet. Will opened his eyes, but didn't look at him, just watched the movement of his hand.

'How long?' said Hannibal.

'Can't say. Could be the weekend, could be longer.' He seemed to shake off the slow dread that came on the coattails of resignation, and added soap to the sink. 'I'm sorry this happened now. You only just—' Will let out a frustrated sigh.

'I'm more concerned for your wellbeing, Will. And,' Hannibal added, 'for the loss of a young woman's life.'

'I'm supposed to fly out in the morning,' said Will, avoiding his gaze. 'Departure's at four-thirty. Wanted to make sure the team could get in a full working day at the outset.'

Hannibal went back to the counter opposite. 'The team?'

'Handful of lab coats with the BAU. I've met a couple of them before when I consulted on a previous case, but never worked with this particular combination.'

'Do you like working with them?'

That made Will laugh a bit, but shortly. 'I don't like working with anyone.' There was the sound of the dish brush against the inside of a bowl, then, 'I'll miss you. I don't really want to be going into the field.'

Hannibal's brow furrowed. 'You're being sent against your will?'

'They twisted Alana's arm to rubber stamp me. My particular,' Will swallowed, _'talents_ aren't exactly a dime a dozen.'

'Then they shouldn't come cheap.'

'That's not the point, the point is maybe catching this guy. That should be compensation enough for anyone, shouldn't it?'

Hannibal gave him a long look. 'No.'

'Kind of a dick thing to say,' Will pointed out, standing up a wooden spoon in the silverware rack to dry. 'My life isn't more important than anyone else's.'

'Nor is their loss of life more important than your continuance,' said Hannibal. He was clearly remembering one of their old conversations—Hannibal cooking breakfast, Will sitting in the dark with a glass of whiskey— _they think I'm delicate, maybe dangerous. But god, am I useful._ 'Your utility is only a part of what you have to offer. They ought to be mindful of that.'

Will had run out of dishes but stayed where he was, watching the faint swirl of the water in the sink, its calm disturbed by his hands. 'Seems I'm the only one who can do what I do.'

'Yes,' said Hannibal, 'all the more reason to treat you with care.'

'This is more of an "aim the crazy at the problem, and deal with the fallout later" situation.'

'May I come along?'

He said it so casually, like that was a completely normal thing to ask, that Will turned. Hannibal was looking at him with only mild curiosity.

'What?' Will made a noise of disbelief as he tried to wrap his brain around it. 'No, of _course_ you can't come. I'm being shoved onto a plane at the crack of dawn to go look at a,' he hesitated for half a second, 'it's not good, all right? I'm not going to be pleasant.'

'I don't expect you to be pleasant.'

'You don't seem to expect me to be _anything_ ,' Will shot back, and then instantly regretted it. 'That was…'

'Out of line,' said Hannibal. 'My apologies.'

Will reeled a bit, at that. But this was becoming a common occurrence: anticipate Hannibal's behavior, then watch as he did the exact opposite. 'Why are you apologizing to me? I'm the one who snapped at you.'

This was what Will didn't know:

Two hours before, Hannibal had received a text. _I've been placed in a difficult position. As a colleague, I need some advice._

_What's troubling you, Alana?_

It took several minutes for her to compose her reply.

_I was told that I needed to sign off on a psych eval, whether I felt the patient was truly stable or not. Inter-departmental politics bullshit. Naturally, I kicked, but it's one of those situations where saying no might mean that there's far more at risk than one person's comfort and stability. I was chosen for the task because the patient trusts me—or did, at any rate._

_Understandable,_ Hannibal replied, _if they wished to bring about a glowing appraisal._

_The way it was presented to me meant that I essentially didn't have a choice, but I didn't know who I was meant to be evaluating until he showed up on my couch. Remember how you told me once that if I ever faced an ethical dilemma, I could ask? This is me asking._

_You've already done what they asked, haven't you?_

_Yes._

A strange choice, considering Alana's usually unshakable principles. Then again, Hannibal had barely spoken to her since she became professionally involved with the FBI; under the right circumstances, even the most principled individuals began to bend.

_How can I help?_

Alana seemed to struggle with how to proceed, typing and stopping many times, before, at last, _You might want to talk to your fiancé._

* * *

Will leaned his head against the hard plastic frame of the oval window, letting the thrum of the engines roar directly against his skull, drowning out what was in there already. His ears had finished popping and the nausea of takeoff subsided; now, as the sun rose, he looked out over the patchwork fields and tangled threads of highways, halfheartedly wondering if trepanation were a viable option to alleviate his constant headache.

He reached across the shared armrest, and Hannibal took his hand.

'Can't _believe_ you,' said Will, and it was barely audible, but Hannibal caught it.

'You don't have to believe me,' said Hannibal. 'Just watch. Let my behavior be the foundation of any faith you may decide I've earned.'

Will closed his eyes. 'Why are you like this? You're the most well-adjusted person on the planet.'

'We all have our faults,' said Hannibal, gently. 'I learned to accept my own, without bitterness. The occasional discordant note makes the rest of one's composition sweeter.'

'That's all well and good if you're a piece of music,' Will muttered. 'Not when you're a piece of—'

'Will.' Hannibal squeezed his hand. 'That's enough.'

Over the course of the two-hour flight, Will began to nod off; Hannibal folded up the armrest between them so Will could lean against him more comfortably, his head on Hannibal's shoulder. For a while, Hannibal read articles on his tablet, but found himself far too distracted to carry on. Will, after all, was right there, breathing steadily and deeply, his lashes fanned out dark and perfect against his cheeks, frowning a little in his sleep.

This was not going to be easy, Hannibal knew. Will was already anxious about the coming days, distant and abrasive, doubtful of every good thing within his grasp. And there was the little problem of Hannibal's personal stakes in the matter, of course, the rivalry lurking unseen beneath the unfolding tableaux.

But if he wanted to be trusted, he would have to be trustworthy.

* * *

The motel room had been booked through whatever office handled those details for the BAU, and it had been intended for a single occupant. When they keyed in—and the place was old enough to still use keys, not cards—Hannibal opened the curtains to let some of the peachy-golden morning light into the little room.

'Have you ever shared a motel bed with someone?' he said, as Will dropped their bags and began hunting around for the files he'd brought.

Will made a noise like an audible shrug. 'Went to a convention once, when I was in college. We packed in six to a double room, me and my roommate and some of her friends that I only sort of knew.'

'It sounds like a scenario ripe for personality clashes.' Hannibal was looking around, opening the little drawers. There was a bible in the nightstand, along with takeout menus and a pad of paper, the impression of a previous note denting its top pages. 'What was it for?'

'The con doesn't exist anymore,' said Will, dropping folders onto the end of the tightly-made bed. 'Only ran for six years. It was based around this series of European mystery novels that was left unfinished when the author was murdered, herself. That's the kind of thing I was into at the time.'

'Before you trained to join the police?'

'Yep.' Will was frowning a little, unzipping side pouches of the duffel bag. 'Shit, did I forget to pack my meds?'

'Inside pocket on the left,' said Hannibal. 'Along with a few pairs of gloves.'

'Thanks.' Will retrieved them, and went into the tiny bathroom so he could put on his dose for the day at the usual time. 'Kind of weird, right? We only just slept in the same bed for the first time, and now we've got to line up on a tiny mattress like bullets in a clip.'

'You have a way with words.'

'And I thrash in my sleep when I'm working a case. I can dig up an extra blanket somewhere, and sleep on the floor.'

'You know I won't allow that.'

'You've been pretty permissive so far.' Will could see Hannibal in the slice of room reflected in the mirror, and gave him a brief, tired smile. 'Not that I mind. What are your plans for the day? I can't imagine you strolling around Mall of America.'

Hannibal straightened the little stack of files Will had left on the bed. 'I haven't decided.'

'You can take the rental,' said Will, stripping off the latex gloves and throwing them away, pulling his shirt back on. 'I was going to ride along with forensics anyway, to go over what we know so far.'

When Will came back out into the room, he was struck by the way the morning light gilded Hannibal's profile, the shades of ash and silver in his hair, and he felt a little pang in his chest. Will wanted to stay here—or, rather, he'd wanted to stay _home_. But knowing Hannibal would be here at the end of the day, to catch him if he stumbled, was a gift.

'I always find a way to occupy myself,' said Hannibal. He was half-backlit so that the sun caught one eye in a flash of amber and left the other in shadow. 'I like to people-watch.'

* * *

For now, think of it as a body.

Think of it as it exists in nature: carbon, keratin, water. All the little bricks that build us. Trillions of atoms working in synchrony, entirely by accident.

Do not think of it as a person.

Do not think of it as it existed in life, how it lives on in the mind: she, her, daughter, friend. Student, dreamer, fangirl, girlfriend, overachiever, reader, soul. Do not see the future cut off, its ragged edges raw and left to rot. Don't anticipate. The meaning is what you need. The path the body takes until it ceases. Find it, hold it tight in your fist. Take its hand and let it lead you along, even when it goes where you wished it wouldn't. Especially then.

Don't look at it with your eyes. Don't look, Will. Close your eyes. Open yourself, let the others in. Let them look at what they've done.

See what he wants you to see.

* * *

'Who's that guy with you?' said Beverly.

Will had been staring out of the window, but drew himself back to the present moment. 'Sorry, what?'

'The guy,' said Zeller, who was driving them back to the motel. 'The one that dresses like my Aunt Janine's second-best sofa cover.'

'Fascinating mandible guy,' Jimmy added, for additional clarity. 'Ooh, I'd _love_ to get a good look at that coronoid process.'

Will leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes. He barely knew these people, but they seemed to have adopted him immediately, explaining their in-jokes and asking what (to Will) seemed like very personal questions, but in an off-hand manner that could steamroller you if you weren't careful. Lab people just seemed to be like that. Maybe they were likable if you'd had enough sleep, but Will hadn't. Maybe they were fun to be around if you hadn't just spent the morning stumbling through the mind of someone who cut out college girls' organs, and mounted them on racks of antlers, but Will had.

Best to end the conversation quickly. That was probably kinder. Short, blunt, and to-the-point.

'His name's Hannibal and we're engaged.'

'Whoa, slow down, tiger,' said Zeller, looking at him in the rear-view mirror. 'That's a lot to unpack.'

'It really isn't,' said Will. 'I've just given you two facts.'

'But we need _so many more_ facts,' said Jimmy, with an expression like he wanted to whip out a little flip-top pad and take notes. 'For starters, how did you meet? Secondly, who names their child Hannibal? It rhymes with cannibal. Far be it from me to judge, but it could be construed as a little gauche. Thirdly—'

'Is thirdly really a word?' said Zeller.

Beverly nodded. 'I've seen it in the _Lancet_.'

'I've seen some absolute bullshit in the _Lancet_.'

  _'Thirdly_ ,' Jimmy spoke over them, ticking items off on his fingers, 'when's the wedding? Matching suits, or is that too on-the-nose?'

'I want to know where he got that suit,' said Beverly. 'And who takes a last-minute flight in a three-piece? I shambled through the TSA checkpoints in my damn pajamas.'

Will sighed. 'I don't know when the wedding is because we haven't planned it yet. There's some point where he has to go back to Europe.'

'Why?' said Jimmy and Beverly in unison.

But Zeller was smirking. 'Guys, I think we've found ourselves a citizenship racket.'

'Oh, my god,' said Jimmy, more fascinated than aghast. 'Does there need to be an intervention? Tell me you actually want to marry this guy.' He raised an eyebrow. 'If you don't, I might.'

Will laughed a little, at that. 'I thought you said his name was tacky.'

'I wouldn't be taking his _first_ name.'

'What _is_ his last name?' said Beverly.

'Lecter,' said Will.

They were stopped at a light, and Zeller was rooting around for the cord to charge his phone. 'What, like a podium?'

Jimmy tutted at him. 'Lec _ter_ , not lec _tern_. Use your ears.'

'Hmm,' said Beverly. 'Sounds fake.'

'It doesn't sound fake,' said Will.

_'Hannibal_ ,' said Jimmy, in a theatrical voice, _'Lecter_.'

'Can you stop saying my fiancé's name like that?'

'Title of your sex tape,' said Beverly quietly, and Zeller muffled a snicker.

Jimmy patted Will on the arm, giving him a kindly look. 'That's a reference.'

'Look, we know it's been a shitty day,' said Beverly, turning in her seat. 'Tomorrow won't be any better. You've got family interviews, jamming with the locals, all _that_ fun stuff. And a little bird might have told me that you're not exactly Mr Field Work.'

'The little bird was actually a big bird,' Zeller clarified. 'A big, authoritative bird with the kind of office where you can have a scotch on the job and nobody gives you the side-eye because you've Seen Some Shit.'

'Our boss,' Jimmy added, helpfully. 'Yours, too, I guess. Welcome aboard!'

'So,' Beverly went on, 'we do this. We take a step back and we crack jokes. You worked homicide, didn't you?'

'Come on, look at that face,' said Zeller. 'He didn't crack jokes, he cracked _cases_.'

Jimmy agreed. 'And the skulls of ne'er-do-wells.'

'I've never cracked any skulls,' Will pointed out. 'Other than my own.'

'Was it roller derby?' said Jimmy. 'Mine was roller derby.'

'Slipped on the deck of a boat when I was nine.'

'You know,' said Zeller, 'childhood head trauma is one of the top neurodevelopmental risk factors for serial—'

'I know,' said Will, a little too quickly, showing a little too much. 'It's kind of my job to know that. Anyway,' he added, 'you're right, I'm not exactly the joking type.'

'Aside from that sardonic back-talk you were giving Jack.' Beverly sounded impressed. 'He looked like he was gonna pop a blood vessel.'

'Like you said,' Will replied, 'I'm not Mr Field Work.'

'You must be a hardass to study under,' said Beverly, as Zeller pulled into the motel parking lot. 'Friend of mine took one of your courses, he said it was a nightmare. You do know people have social lives, right?'

Will shrugged. 'You turn in your work, or the work turns on you later. It's their choice.'

'Thankfully, some of us can sleep our way to the top,' said Jimmy. 'Isn't that right, Z?'

'All right, all right, banter's over, get out of the car.'

'Hey,' said Beverly, catching Will before they all drifted away to their respective rooms. 'If he was willing to tag along for _corpses_? Sounds like you've got a keeper. Let him help you, all right?'

All Will had wanted to do, all day, was curl up in Hannibal's arms and rest. 'I'll keep that in mind.'

When he opened the door to their room, Will was met by the pleasing scent of butter and herbs. Hannibal was standing at the dresser next to the TV cabinet, his back to the door, a spatula in hand.

'You went out and bought a hotplate?' said Will. 'Really?'

Hannibal turned and smiled at him. 'The take-away options were less than ideal, and we don't know how long this leg of the investigation will take. Shall I ask about your day, or would you prefer to be distracted from it?'

'Distracted,' said Will, setting his bag down in one of the chairs at the little table under the window. 'What's it like being super weird and soothing all the time?'

Hannibal poured beaten eggs into the skillet, and whisked them into the diced onions and peppers already sizzling there. 'I enjoy the feeling of meeting others' needs.'

Will sat on the edge of the mattress to take off his shoes. 'Must be exhausting.'

'Far from it.'

A little chime went off.

'Is that your phone or my phone?' said Will. He'd fallen backwards across the center of the bed, an arm over his eyes.

'Mine,' said Hannibal. Still keeping an eye on the eggs, he opened the message. 'It's Alana, checking in. She says the dogs are in high spirits.'

'I bet they are,' said Will, slightly muffled, 'since they get to eat all the stuff you brought home from the butcher's. Do you think my working this case is a conflict of interest? Since I sort of know the family.'

'It seems Jack Crawford would insist upon your cooperation, regardless.'

Will sighed. 'He's not a bad guy, far as I can tell. Just… you know. Hard job, get results or get the hell out. Not really the context in which I thrive.'

'You seem better suited to handing out the assignments,' said Hannibal. Another message from Alana appeared below the first. _I feel terrible about all this. Thank you for looking after him._

Hannibal skimmed his off-hand across the keyboard. _I intend to look out for his best interests however I can._

* * *

After dinner, Hannibal sat with his back to the headboard, Will stretched out alongside him, head in Hannibal's lap as he read.

'"The people, convinced of the integrity of his intentions, acquitted him with honor, preserved the highest esteem for him, and loaded him with still greater marks of their favor and confidence. Guards were posted, and fortifications repaired by his advice. He was pitched upon to pronounce the funeral oration of the brave men who had fallen…"' Hannibal paused for a long moment, but still ran his fingers through Will's hair as he had been doing. 'What are you thinking, Will?'

Will had been staring into the middle distance, but closed his eyes, focusing on Hannibal's touch. 'I don't want to be thinking.' He nuzzled a little against Hannibal's hand. 'Distract me.'


	8. Seeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were all beautiful, and all looked the same, lined up at the edge of the world. Beckoning you to come to them, be with them again, lost things falling into place with their sweet song, until the hull split and your skull cracked and everything was blissfully quiet and dark. A lack of consciousness means never having to guess who you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains depictions of gender dysphoria and struggles with identity, which may be a sensitive topic for some.
> 
> (and the podfic includes a _heavy_ midwestern accent. they are in minnesota after all)
> 
> here's the audio:  
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1-4DeFLZzekGNgU-OQJFAa11tj8JzfzKT)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/790102/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20eight.mp3)

_He has a daughter._

They had all looked like her, but somehow, she barely resembled them: prototypes and rough drafts lined up before the masterpiece, the final work that could have elevated his craft to _art_.

_Same age as the other girls, same… same hair color, same eye color, same height, same weight._

None of the earlier attempts had those wide, wondering eyes, though, the freckles that dappled her face and arms. None of the others had possessed her trusting obedience, shaky hands learning to be still as she guided the gutting blade. They were valuable, of course, but merely understudies.

_She's an only child, she's leaving home._

They had all looked like her, and as Will held his quaking hands to the gash at her throat, _no, no, no,_ slipping and disoriented with blood and noise, Will realized that he had, too.

Determined, beyond the recognition of futility, to clean his glasses, Will stood in the driveway as the ambulances pulled away. He'd found a relatively unspattered portion of his shirttail and had it between his fingers and thumb, rubbing at the lenses in circles that only served to smudge the wet peaks of the droplets of blood, away from the edges of each corona that had long since dried.

In the spinning of his mind, Will sought a place of comfort. Water, peaceful woods. Familiarity. But the familiar was never unmingled with pain, was it?

Standing in the chilly creek up to his knees, blue plastic jelly sandals sunk a little into the mud, casting and re-casting the line until he got it right, Dad said she needed to release the tension a little earlier, that's why it had got caught in the trees before. Walking slick-shod up the mossy bank and through the unpathed woods back to the gravel road, up to Mrs Cowan's trailer for her piano lesson, she said she was proud of him, he was learning faster than any of her other students, maybe by the time school started up again they could try a ragtime piece, and Will figured they would have moved on by September, but he pretended not to know that. The flat yard was scrubby with balding brown grass, but verdant rose bushes clung to the walls, climbing, heavy with blooms, covering the house like a floral quilt.

_She's an only child, she's leaving home._

Sirens. Will had read a book about Greek mythology once, from the school library back when they spent six months or so in Alabama, this big floppy paperback with a glossy yellow binding, edges worn soft. Sirens were neither women, nor birds, instead some strange fusion that allowed them the most dangerous aspects of both, and the weaknesses of neither. They lured innocent sailors to their deaths, blood dashed across the rocks like surf, but sailors were never truly innocent, were they? You had to be missing something, inside, to turn to the sea.

Lights. Twin beams moved across the wall, and she went to the fridge to get out the first beer for the evening, cracking it open with the cast iron bottle opener mounted on the kitchen doorframe. He'd come home late again, but that was probably for the best; Will had gotten distracted by the mystery novel she was reading and didn't hear the timer go off for the oven, and had had to start dinner over. There was a pall of smoke still clinging to the corners of the room (there was no battery in the alarm, anymore), and there would be a conspicuous blank in the pantry and freezer, because of it, but she could stop by the corner store tomorrow with money from her paper route, that's what it was for. Milk, eggs, packet of meat, two onions, potatoes. Sometimes, she'd buy a pack of Bazooka Joe or a candy bar, but most of the time he felt too guilty to, like it was a waste. Why should he have something to herself?

Sirens. Lights. (Is your father home? No, officer.)

They were all beautiful, and all looked the same, lined up at the edge of the world. Beckoning you to come to them, be with them again, lost things falling into place with their sweet song, until the hull split and your skull cracked and everything was blissfully quiet and dark. A lack of consciousness means never having to guess who you are. Deer raised their heads beyond the tree line, startled, frozen by the sound. The roar of the water, the buzz of the broken piano pedal, sirens, gunshots, the clickety wheeling-out of the line, again and again.

(Is your father home?) The nameplate on her uniform, and the uniform itself (if not the gun), meant that no one called him _Miss_ , and the kid held the door open only a crack, shoulders tense, peering out warily into the muggy bayou afternoon with its clouds of gnats and thick, glutinous air, trusting only so long as the chain was on the latch. He couldn't remember her eyes, but could taste the fear that radiated from her, taste it like bitten tin foil. Split lip, hungry cheeks, backup was on the way. They found the mother in the attic. They found other things.

Bullets, lights. Praying for sirens. A woman in uniform bleeding out and a man thinking, with white-noise clarity, _I've been someone else this whole time, and now I won't be anyone._

As if separate from his body, he watched a woman die that day. Suspended above like a balloon on the end of a string, he looked down at her with only a little regret. She could have been someone, too. She didn't even have a gravestone. She deserved better than abandonment, refusal, cold disregard.

Didn't she?

And yet, as she faded at last and left him, a stranger in her clothes, as the looping sound of rescue doppler-echoed from the access road, he thought, _thank God she's gone._

All this blurred together in a wave, in seconds. Will put his glasses into his shirt pocket, giving up, moving on.

_He can't stand the thought of losing her._

He opened his eyes.

Hannibal stood beside him, and offered his hand. 'Stay with me.'

Will took it, only then realizing just how much his own were trembling. 'Where else would I go?'

* * *

Will lay on the motel bed in his boxers, freshly-showered and with a towel under his head so the bedspread wouldn't get damp from his hair. The room was a bit humid with steam; he'd been in there a long time.

Hannibal was cooking them dinner on the hotplate: a rare vegetarian offering, since Will had winced at the idea of the taste of meat. He was far from squeamish, but, for the moment, the thought of eating something that had once moved under the power of a beating heart was too much to bear. Hannibal obliged, as he did with everything else.

'I'm sick of this room,' said Will. It had been just over a week. 'I'm sick of the way the sky looks different here than it does back home. That's stupid, isn't it? Same sky. But the stars come out in the wrong places, it's not the right blue. Different quality of light in the mornings.'

'I understand,' said Hannibal, who was shaving curls of zest from a lemon. 'When I first traveled to Paris, I had a similar thought—though of course, I'd never seen light pollution quite like that before. Remarkable sunsets, but the orange hue lingers too long into the night.'

'I miss my dogs.'

'So do I.'

'I want to go home.'

'I know.'

'Do you?'

'My home is wherever you are, Will.'

Will felt a little flare of warmth in his heart, at that, but he wasn't in the mood to nurse sentiment. 'Distract me,' he said.

'Tell me more about the author you mentioned,' said Hannibal. 'The one whose work led to your erstwhile convention.'

Will rolled onto his side, propped on an elbow with his head resting on his hand, watching Hannibal work. 'Her name was Eulalia Best. She, uh, I think she was Welsh? Something like that. Started writing in the '50s, back when women authors weren't exactly welcome in the hard-boiled detective genre.'

'I suspected you might like noir,' said Hannibal.

'Could've gathered that from my bookshelf.'

'And the peculiar sharpness of the poetic in the way you speak.' Hannibal looked over his shoulder briefly to smile at him. 'Please, go on.'

'I don't know what else there is to tell.'

'What's your favorite story of hers?'

Will made a considering noise. 'This one short story that only got published in a small-press anthology in about 1967, never reprinted. _He Knocked, She Answered._ A friend had a photocopy of a photocopy, I was lucky to find it.'

'Because of its rarity?'

'That, and she never talked about it again. Not a single interviewer could get a straight answer about the ambiguity of certain scenes, or _any_ answer, really. She had this cultivated air of mystery about her, kept people guessing, and not just about her work.'

'Fitting, considering her genre of choice. What was it about?'

'It took place in Weimar Berlin. A cabaret owner disappears and is presumed murdered, and this—cliché these days, I know—disgraced British detective with substance abuse problems decides to stick his oar in when local law enforcement looks the other way. He definitely had something to prove.' Will picked at a loose thread of the bedspread. 'As is typical of noir protagonists, he wasn't exactly likeable, but you couldn't resist following him around.'

'Protagonist's prerogative, I suppose.'

Will huffed a laugh. 'Depends on your point of view.'

Hannibal gave him a look, acknowledging the faint pun. 'So, was it a whodunit or a howdunit?'

'Little bit of both, if you knew how to look at it,' said Will. 'All he had to go on, all anyone had seen, was the silhouette of a mysterious lady. The story follows the interviews he has with eyewitnesses, dancers at the club, regulars, people the owner knew, and each time a new character was introduced, they became important. All these interlocking pieces, no one was superfluous. You started to care more about them than the missing man, to be honest, and the narrative began to follow their lives, how this disappearance had an impact on so many factors across the community, and what kind of secrets they kept—not only from the detective, but from one another. How everyone's personal biases created this vast ouroboros that encircled them all, devouring itself whole, and in turn sustaining itself.'

Hannibal began adding things to the skillet, and they hissed in the melted butter. 'Sounds like an unconventional piece for the time.'

'That was kind of her thing.' Will smiled a little. 'Turns out, of course, that the detective was far from being unbiased, himself, and completely missed the point of the entire affair.'

'How so?'

'Among all the other sundry bits of dirty laundry the reader learns about in the side-stories, everyone was hiding the same secret from him.'

Hannibal stirred the vegetables with his wooden spatula, and added a little pepper. 'Don't keep me in suspense, Will, it's cruel.'

'She was trans,' said Will. 'It's never outright stated in the text, which is why so many people tried to get Ms Best to explain herself. This character finally gathered up everything she wanted to transition, and did it in one fell swoop. Berlin was the perfect place to do that, at the time. Went under the radar to wait until the fuss died down, reemerge as herself, and "take over" her old business with new papers.'

'Clever of her,' said Hannibal. 'Could you ever imagine faking your own death, Will?'

'I doubt that's a situation that'd ever come up.'

'Humor me. Would you flee to your painter's cottage in Tuscany?'

'And get down to business irritating the local cats,' Will jokingly agreed. 'But… I don't know, actually. I might just wander into the countryside, find some abandoned shack to call home. Whittle sticks into the fire. How about yourself?'

'I would find you,' said Hannibal.

'Not what I asked.'

'I believe there was room for interpretation.'

Will got up and went over to him, resting his chin on Hannibal's shoulder, arms around his waist. 'I can't give you an inch, can I?'

'You can give me whatever you like, Will.' Hannibal leaned his head back against Will's shoulder for a moment, and sighed a little. 'Do you think you'll be able to eat?'

'If I try hard and believe in myself,' said Will wryly. 'You doing okay?' His tone had shifted towards concern. 'You just watched me kill a man.'

'And save a young woman's life.'

'I don't know if that's an appropriate counterbalance to shooting her father that many times.'

'He took far more lives than were his due. Fate catches up to us all.'

'I don't believe in Fate,' said Will, holding him a little tighter. 'I believe in _choices_.'

'All the same, I find myself untroubled,' said Hannibal. 'Save for my concern for you, of course.'

'Untroubled?' Will echoed, letting him go and turning away, going back to sit at the end of the bed. 'Are—what, are you in some kind of shock, or something? I _killed_ a man. Right in front of you.'

'Is it so difficult to imagine a life where such a thing wouldn't be cause for distress?'

_'Yes_ ,' said Will, exasperated. 'That's not _normal_.'

'Neither of us are,' said Hannibal. He turned off the hotplate and put a lid on the skillet so its contents would gently steam. 'Nor is the situation we find ourselves in, nor indeed is the manner in which we found each other. Would you prefer normalcy, Will?' He sounded (though Will might've been reading too much into it) a little hurt.

'I— _no_. No.' Will swallowed, pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I mean, not where you're concerned.'

Hannibal still had his back to him, and Will watched the slight movement of his shoulder blades. 'Are you certain?'

'Don't tell me this is one of those "I can change" moments,' said Will, tersely, 'because I don't _want_ you to.'

'Nothing at all?' Hannibal finally turned to face him, leaning back against the edge of the dresser. 'I'm willing to endure any critique you might have to offer me.'

'I'm the one who just shot a man to death in his own kitchen.' Will scrubbed a hand down his face. 'Don't make this about you.'

'You're not the only one with blood on your hands, Will. I'm simply reminding you of the fact.'

'I don't need _reminding_ ,' Will snapped. 'I see it, I can _feel_ it, it comes off of people in—in waves, sometimes, it's like a heat mirage. I never know when I'm going to dive into something inviting and drown in the dust, instead.'

'I'm solid ground, Will,' said Hannibal, softly. 'I never waver. Not in how I feel for you.'

'Seems like that makes you pretty stupid,' said Will, sinking into the spite and misery of helplessness, curious what might happen if he just let himself submerge. They'd never argued before, not really. Not like this. Maybe this was when the other shoe finally dropped. 'Would you rather be with a killer than be alone? Little pathetic, Hannibal.'

'You're not a killer, Will.'

Will made a frustrated noise. 'This isn't the same as the—the _metaphorical_ death of my former self, this was a human being!'

Will hadn't expected it, and certainly hadn't anticipated the sting, but it felt like a slap to the face when Hannibal shot back, in that same level tone, 'And she wasn't?'

Will glared at him for a long moment, then stood up and reached to open one of the drawers, making Hannibal step out of the way. 'You know what,' said Will, getting out jeans and socks and the first shirt that came to hand, irritable even at the fact that Hannibal had put their clothes into drawers, instead of just living out of suitcases for the past week like anybody else, 'I'm going for a walk.' He hastily, angrily got dressed, jamming his boots on, grabbing his jacket.

'Will—'

'Enjoy your supper.'

'Will, please listen,' said Hannibal, but without any real force. He had reached to catch Will's arm, but stopped short.

When Will spoke, it was with enough sarcasm to etch steel. 'Do you ever think about the fact,' he said, 'that some people don't have the _privilege_ of being honest?'

And he left, the door thudding shut behind him on its spring-loaded hinges.

* * *

A great deal had been said about the Chesapeake Ripper, but none of it was entirely accurate. Now and then, some bright young upstart with fresh ideas and a dissertation board to impress would go ravening around for interviews, but the results were nearly always the same. The profile had shifted now and then, over the years—for a while the prevalent notion was that he was a family man with frustrated artistic yearnings, and for a brief period in the late '90s it was popular to assume that the Ripper was a woman. Motives were batted back and forth, but with too much conspicuous spin, and in the end they always rolled away.

Now, at the close of day, the Ripper sat alone, weighing his options.

Certain parties were getting a little too much attention for his liking. He didn't consider himself to be an envious man, but one's practiced self-insight does not preclude the possibility of error. The tone of the world was shifting, new blood stepping in to crowd out the old masters; he could not, and _would_ not abide that. The Ripper had lain in wait, watching, but now there were so many inviting opportunities presenting themselves. The Shrike had been shot from the sky just as he'd reached his most dizzying heights, and that meant there was once again a vacancy, a blind spot in the public eye.

It would be a shame to let it go to waste.

* * *

The back of Will's neck was cold, but inside he felt like he was on fire.

This was all so _stupid_. What was he doing? How did he get himself into this position? Well, he knew how, he'd gone along with what he was told needed to be done. There hadn't really been a choice in the matter, thanks to how Jack Crawford had gone about securing his assistance, but here's the thing: there wouldn't have been, anyway. If someone had just _asked_ Will, given him the agency to _decide_ to help catch the Shrike, he wouldn't have been able to say no. In good conscience, against his better judgement, Will always ran along after trouble, hoping he could do something about it. Hoping, somehow, that he could make up for how he felt. What he saw in others, and in himself. Fix things.

He'd never been a religious man, but over the months of their long-distance courtship, he'd had a lot of conversations with Hannibal about the nature of God. Sitting tucked up in bed with a cup of tea, dogs clustered around him curiously at the sound of another man's voice in the room, Will watched in the Skype window as Hannibal slowly strolled through Sainte-Chapelle, stained-glass light hung with motes of dust, glittering the air.

_I don't worship_ , Hannibal had told him. _No more than mindful existence is a form of recognition of the divine._ He tilted his phone to show Will the details of a painted pillar, gold leaf on blue like bursts of stars.

Will listened to the echo of his steps in the vaulted room. _"The unexamined life is not worth living", is that it?_

_If one doesn't examine oneself and one's own behavior,_ said Hannibal, _I find myself drawn to the task._ _To turn it over in my hands and see what God has wrought._

_Do you think God makes mistakes?_

_Not only does he,_ said Hannibal, _but he feels a great shame and regret. It must be difficult._

Will laughed. _Oh, sure, being omnipotent is a real drag._

He watched the beautiful ceiling pass above them as Hannibal switched back to the front camera. _No one to hold him accountable, and none with the power to absolve him. I would hate to live such a life, wouldn't you? Forgiveness is the utmost expression of love._

_He dug his own grave,_ said Will. _If he exists and is what we're told he is, then he invented forgiveness. Why not allow someone to see his mistakes?_

_It would undermine his authority as our father._

_Admitting they've fucked up isn't exactly a common fatherly trait._

Hannibal gave him a look. _Will, please, we're on holy ground._

Will smiled.

_He may not admit his faults with words,_ Hannibal went on, showing Will different angles of a statue, _but he speaks the most honestly with his actions. He destroyed the world with flood, and then made a promise to never do so again; he watched as David, the man he appointed king of his chosen people, betrayed him again and again, but always took him back._

_I'd say that's more obstinate than self-effacing._

_Well_ , said Hannibal, sitting down in a pew, his face illuminated by prismatic light, _regardless of his misdeeds, he is rather proud of himself_.

In the present, Will stopped to re-tie his boots properly, sitting down on the curb outside of a gas station. The sun was setting, bright pink and orange clouds scrawled across the sky like someone testing a highlighter. Dry leaves, remnants of the fading winter, skittered along the pockmarked asphalt; there was the scent of chimney smoke in the air, and Will realized he had a headache, and didn't have his wallet. There was some change in his jacket pocket, though, maybe that'd be enough. He went into the station.

Pop music from a decade ago played from tinny speakers, and the heat of the room after the chilly spring evening made his glasses fog. Among the packets of stomach meds and trucker speed, he found a single-dose foilpaper envelope of aspirin, and took it up to the counter.

'Evenin',' said the woman at the register. Her nametag read _Patrice._ 'You get yourself any fuel, honey?'

'No, just this.'

She scanned the crinkled bar code on the back. 'Seventy-eight cents.'

Will counted out his change, and found he was short. 'I, uh. Sorry, never mind.'

'Oh, hush, you got a squint like you're in a spotlight. Only a dime off, I got you covered.'

Will made an attempt at a smile. 'Thanks.' He took the packet and ripped it open, tipping the two pills out into his hand.

'You ain't gonna swallow that, now?' said the woman.

'Kind of the point,' said Will.

'If you enjoy gettin' holes in your esophagus,' she said with a roll of her eyes, taking one of the flimsy clear plastic cups from a stack behind the counter. 'Get you some water out the machine or I'll call the dang cops.'

Will's smile was genuine, this time. 'Yes, ma'am.'

She came out from behind the counter and leaned to watch as Will pulled the lever next to the Sprite dispenser to fill his cup. 'You hearin' 'bout that murderer they got today? Been all over, my Tweeter's blown right up.'

'Yeah,' said Will, 'I heard.'

'Damn shame, all those pretty young girls.'

'I don't think it matters so much that they were pretty,' said Will. 'They were people. That's enough for me.'

'Wonder what makes a fella like that! He can't be of a faith, I reckon. What church you go to, honey?'

'I don't,' said Will, with a little hesitation. 'I'm not really, um. Welcomed with open arms.'

'My family's up at the United Methodist in Excelsior, yah know, off Highway 7? We got a big ol' pretty rainbow flag out the front.' She said it like dangling a carrot.

Will swallowed his aspirin with a little difficulty. 'Is that right?'

'Well, I don't mean to assume,' said, with a dismissive little wave. 'Everybody's got a soul, no matter what shape it starts out in.'

Will did his best not to tense up, at that. 'Guess you're right.'

'Anywho, yah probably don't want a theological jawin' when your head hurts,' said Patrice. 'It gets boring around here, and I'm just chat-chat-chatty. You have yourself a good one, sir.'

Some of the tension of his jaw relaxed at the term of address. 'You too,' said Will, going back out into the cold.

The wind had picked up, and his still-damp hair was making him regret not grabbing his hat when he'd stormed out.

Despite being in contact at every opportunity for six months, and despite nearly two weeks of living together (half of which was under unusual, stressful circumstances), he and Hannibal were still getting to know each other. Finding out what overlapped or abraded the other was an ongoing process, and things like this were bound to happen from time to time.

So why was Will angry? Did he _want_ Hannibal to be afraid of him, disgusted by him somehow? Was he finding reasons that things might never work out, simply to outweigh the decidedly foreign experience of someone caring about him so deeply, wanting him, with so much trust?

They'd spent the past eight nights in a small, borrowed room, and their days were spent as thematically separate as was possible for them to be: Hannibal taking a second rental car to and from various parks and museums and the Arboretum, Will driving out to the FBI field office in Minneapolis every day, coming back every night with dark circles under his eyes and a weight on his shoulders. Hannibal would cook for him, take his laundry to the cleaners, rub his back before bed. Kiss him good morning, ask about the work he would be doing that day, about the new body that had been found, impaled and eviscerated in an empty field. Kiss Will goodnight and wrap his arms around him, close and safe.

He was angry at himself.

Will didn't understand why Hannibal didn't take issue with particular aspects of his personality. It was one thing to be of the opinion that your existence was valid and that you deserved respect and acceptance (on a good day, at any rate), and entirely another matter when someone else embraced the notion so wholeheartedly. Will had always just assumed that everyone thought of him like he thought of himself—abrasive, unsociable, reclusive and weird. Always stepping on toes, demanding too much. In turns both too closed and too forthcoming about his opinions.

(Delicate. Too sensitive, too emotional. Too soft, always trying to prove that he wasn't. Never quite passing, not even when the beard finally started to come in, six years down that long road of waiting for the gel to dry every morning. Not even when he didn't have to slouch anymore.)

But these were _Will's_ thoughts, not anyone else's. Certainly, or so it seemed, not Hannibal's. Self-doubt can only gnaw at you if you give it teeth.

He retraced his steps to return to the motel, in the rapidly gathering dusk.

More than anyone in his life, Hannibal understood him. Saw him for who and what he was, nothing else, even when given ample information that might dissuade him from that certainty. Will frequently found himself in a position to relay highly accurate observations, but he was only ever taken seriously from the outset about half the time. People doubt one's ability to possess that level of insight. But if he was able to analyze and predict the feelings and actions of others, peer behind the curtain of neuroses and deception, why not himself? He knew who he was. He'd known for longer than anyone else.

And now Hannibal knew him, too. Knew, and saw, and still remained. When he was tired or depressed, Hannibal fussed over him; when he was happy, Hannibal seemed full of light and gratitude; when Will struggled with the nature of his work, Hannibal sympathized, and comforted him; when Will threw barbed remarks like darts, Hannibal simply plucked them free, with no concern for himself, wondering only about what pain drove Will to lash out at all.

It didn't make sense, unless—

Unless Hannibal really loved him. Unless he were able to see Will whole and gleaming, aware of his faults and troubles but undeterred, no single element of his character able to overwhelm the final composition.

Will recalled a conversation they'd had, about two months in. Hannibal had noted that Will frequently undermined himself in conversation—hedging, starting and ending many sentences with _I don't know_ , or _I know it doesn't make sense_ , dismissive of himself and his experiences. Will pointed out, a little defensively, that it was just an acquired verbal mannerism, common among people of his generation (particularly those not raised as boys), but Hannibal wouldn't be swayed. _I want you to try saying "and",_ Hannibal had told him, _not "but". It may surprise you._

Will did so now, feeling stupid about it like he always did, but it helped nevertheless.

Will felt insecure, unworthy, unlovable, dangerous, _and_ Hannibal thought the opposite.

Will still found himself in the grips of dysphoria that should, in his opinion, have long since faded by now, _and_ Hannibal saw him as a remarkable, attractive man. A catch, even.

Will was afraid that he wouldn't be enough, that if and when they ever followed distraction to its most intimate conclusion, Hannibal would find himself dissatisfied with what Will had to offer, missing a shape that never was— _and_ Hannibal didn't press the issue, perfectly patient, waiting for whatever it is that Will wanted. And Will _did_ want, still hoped.

Maybe God made mistakes, and maybe he didn't. Maybe, if there was such a thing as a divine plan for every person, this was precisely where Will needed to be. Questioning. Hurting, seeking something. Hoping he was wrong about himself, and that hope itself was right.

By the time he reached the motel, it was dark, stars and the sound of insects coming out in stages. Will didn't have his key, but the door to Room 33 was unlocked.

Yellow streetlamp and sign-glow from the parking lot came through a small gap in the curtains, the room's only light. Hannibal lay in bed, on the far side with his face to the wall, his back to the door. A plate covered in foil sat on the circular table under the window, and Will lay the backs of his fingers against it, finding it still warm. He didn't feel like he could eat, regret forming a knot in his throat.

Will undressed quietly, draping his clothes over the back of a chair, tucking his boots under the table so they wouldn't trip someone in the dark. He went and brushed his teeth without turning the light on, then climbed into bed, curling around Hannibal under the covers, sliding a hand over his.

'Did you have a nice walk?' said Hannibal, his voice soft.

'Didn't mean to wake you,' said Will.

'You didn't.'

Will kissed his shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Hannibal.'

'There's no need to apologize,' said Hannibal. 'You had ever right to say what you did.'

'I really didn't, though.'

Hannibal snuggled back against him, squeezing Will's hand gently. 'You pointed out a streak of complacency in my behavior that I tend to ignore,' he said. 'To be aware of one's privilege, especially that which is unearned, can be an uncomfortable experience. And you know me, Will,' he sounded a little amused at himself, 'with my need for comfort and beauty in all things.'

'I'm good at projecting,' said Will.

'And internalizing,' said Hannibal, kissing the back of Will's hand.

'I paint my assumptions on you and act like they're yours.' Will sighed, and breathed in the scent of Hannibal's hair. 'You were talking about something else entirely.'

'We're never only speaking of one thing at a time,' Hannibal reminded him. '"Biblical allusions and half-cocked metaphors that never come to fruition", remember?'

Will chuckled. 'How could I forget? You never stop.'

'I would,' Hannibal told him. 'If you wished.'

Will held him a little tighter, then. 'I don't want you to change,' he whispered.

Hannibal made a low sound of contentment in his chest, and a little tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. 'Nor do I.'


	9. Listening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘What’s on the agenda for the day?’  
> ‘Mandatory follow-up,’ said Will. ‘Polite interrogation, essentially. They want to make sure I’m not nuts.’  
> ‘I could have told them that,’ said Hannibal, beginning to make the bed.  
> ‘Wish you would.’  
> ‘Perhaps I should.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the audio:  
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1CYjaUoIKpDHDkGRH74bsdGNYzwEL-ceH)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/790810/marry%20me%20home,%20chapter%20nine.mp3)

The stream rushed away beneath him, scattered with light. He cast the line, fed it out, letting the current take it onwards. The day was hot, the sun beating down against his brow, and Will told himself that he’d wade back to the bank to take off his vest and overshirt soon, as soon as he caught the first of the day. Just wait. A little discomfort meant that the cool breeze against his skin would be all the sweeter.

But the longer he waited, the worse it got. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, frowning against the glare of the afternoon, and sweat began to soak his collar and the small of his back. His limbs felt heavy as a wave of exhaustion broke over him, and a sound made him turn; on the left bank, a massive creature stood, like a shadow made flesh, its feathered pelt drinking in light as much as it reflected it with an oil-slick iridescence. Its hoof raked the earth, and from that spot upon the ground something dark began to seep down the gentle slope into the water. The scent of copper and salt filled Will’s senses, and when he looked down, the stream had gone black, coagulating around him where he stood, sickly and foul with death.

‘Will?’

Hannibal had the back of his hand to Will’s brow, propped up on one elbow beside him in their motel bed.

‘Nightmare,’ said Will. His side of the sheets were soaked with sweat, and the heavy trepidation of understanding weighed him down as much as it had in the dream. The clock read 4:41am. ‘Sorry, did I make a noise?’

‘You’re feverish.’

Will sat up and swung his legs over, hands at the edge of the mattress, head hung between his shoulders. ‘You may want to get out of bed.’

He got up, grateful for the darkness, and went into the little bathroom to assess the damage.

Worst time for it, as always. It had been blessedly absent for nearly two years, but acute stress could bring it forward again; it was far from as painful, and thankfully not as heavy as when he was younger and unmedicated, but the fact that it existed at all still unsettled him. It took approximately twenty-one days to break a habit, or so the saying went—but every twenty-eight, he dreaded its return, and now would feel that anxiety for months to come. The fatigue, the temperature spikes, the inevitable headaches… well, at least he knew what had been going on with him for the past week.

Hannibal spoke through the closed door. ‘Do you need anything, Will?’

‘There’s, um. There’s a small cloth pouch in the top drawer,’ said Will. ‘Next to my packer.’

God, why were all the towels white? Despite the fever, Will turned on the shower almost punishingly hot, and stepped under the spray.

He heard a knock at the door, and the sound of it opening a crack so Hannibal could be heard over the water. ‘I’ll leave it on the counter,’ he said.

‘Wait—’ Will felt stupid for asking, and suspected it was a bad idea, but he realized that Hannibal wouldn’t mind. ‘Can you stay? Just… I don’t know, keep me company, I guess. Keep me out of my own head.’

‘Of course.’ Hannibal left the door ajar, and turned on the fan to clear away some of the steam. ‘Do you want to talk about your nightmare?’

‘Not really,’ said Will, wringing out the scratchy washcloth for the third time, pink-tinged water going down the slow drain. ‘Just don’t want you sitting out there and staring and the conspicuous bloodstain on the white sheets and… thinking thoughts.’

‘I often think thoughts,’ Hannibal pointed out, with a hint of humor, ‘though none would paint you in a bad light, bloodstained or otherwise.’

Will doubted that, but didn’t say so. Distract him. ‘I had a conversation with this cashier at the Kwik Trip station.’

‘On your walk?’

‘I needed some aspirin,’ said Will. ‘She asked what church I went to.’

Will caught a glimpse of Hannibal through the gap between the shower curtain and the wall: seated on the edge of the counter, fingers laced together in front of him, now and then bouncing his foot. Will wondered what it meant if you found that kind of thing endearing, just how someone happened to be sitting at the time. How they looked in their pajamas. He remembered Alana telling him one time that if you hate someone, anything can bother you about them—how quickly or slowly they eat, how they park. Will thought that maybe being in love was the opposite, but slightly left-of-center; you could still find some things about them annoying, but the annoyance was through a veil of fondness and compassion for them, so in the end it didn’t matter so much. He wondered what things about him Hannibal found irritating, if any. Maybe he’d ask.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Said it wasn’t really my thing,’ said Will, deciding to go ahead and wash his hair while he was in there. Everything felt gritty with sweat.

‘Not even cathedrals?’

Will considered that. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe with you. I don’t think I’d ever go alone, seems overwhelming, you know? I don’t know the rules, I think I’d do something wrong and get into trouble.’

‘God wouldn’t smite you for setting foot in the sanctuary, Will,’ said Hannibal. Will could hear him smiling. ‘No more than he’s smitten me.’

‘You know,’ said Will, ‘I was convinced for a minute that this woman clocked me. Some people just… have an eye for it, you can be doing everything right and they still know.’

‘Know what?’

He said it with that mild curiosity that was typical of him, the kind that was less about his own interest and more about wanting you to delve for your own sake. Classic therapist move, damn him. But Will didn’t mind. If anything, it helped him realize where his own bias was working against him.

‘Know that I’m trans,’ said Will. ‘Obviously.’

‘It’s not obvious to me.’

‘Guess you don’t have that particular talent. Can’t win ‘em all.’

‘I won your attention,’ Hannibal noted.

‘That’s hardly a prize.’

‘More like an honor than a prize, you’re right.’

Will scrubbed his beard. ‘You’re relentless.’

‘My affection for you has yet to relent.’

Will lingered over rinsing off his face, killing time before he answered. ‘It will.’

‘I disagree.’

‘Can you hand me that?’ Will’s throat felt a little tight with apprehension. A moment later, Hannibal stuck his hand around the curtain, holding the little silicone cup by its stem as one might hold a flower.

Will was glad for the water, for the barrier between them. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘I confess I’ve never seen one of these before,’ said Hannibal, going to sit back against the counter again. ‘Times have certainly changed.’

‘Not that you’ve ever had to deal with it,’ said Will, a little grumpily.

‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’m not unaware of its impact on someone’s wellbeing.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Particularly a man’s.’

‘Don’t patronize me,’ said Will.

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You don’t decide.’

Will popped the cup into place, rinsed his hands, and turned the shower off.

‘You’re right,’ said Hannibal, quietly, and pushed off from the counter. ‘I’ll go to the front desk for fresh linens.’

After he left, Will got dried off, scrunched the water from his hair. He wiped a streak of condensation from the mirror and looked at himself in the sweating glass. Leaned over the sink to stare into his own eyes.

‘Stop it,’ he said. And that was that.

Will was fully dressed by the time Hannibal returned, sitting at the table with his laptop open.

‘An early start,’ said Hannibal, as if nothing unusual had occurred. Perhaps it hadn’t. ‘What’s on the agenda for the day?’

‘Mandatory follow-up,’ said Will. ‘Polite interrogation, essentially. They want to make sure I’m not nuts.’

‘I could have told them that,’ said Hannibal, beginning to make the bed.

‘Wish you would.’

‘Perhaps I should.’

‘Conflict of interest,’ Will pointed out. ‘Jack wouldn’t allow it.’

‘Wouldn’t he?’ Hannibal pulled the pillows from their cases. ‘Having Alana conduct your initial evaluation to return to the field was rife with conflicts, and yet he signed off on that.’

‘That’s different,’ said Will. ‘We’re colleagues.’

‘And long-time friends.’

‘Not the _marrying_ kind of friends.’

Hannibal turned to him and smiled as he shook a pillow down into its fresh case. ‘Are we the marrying kind of friends, Will?’

‘That’s the plan,’ said Will dryly. ‘Or so I gathered.’

‘Nothing would make me happier,’ said Hannibal. He put on the fitted sheet with relative ease, and now flipped the top sheet out over it, tucking it in with hospital corners. ‘Have you thought about the wedding?’

‘Not really,’ said Will, lying.

‘I look forward to seeing you in a good suit.’

That made Will smile a little. ‘What’s the matter with my suits?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Liar. You’re picky about clothes, go on.’

‘Something more fitted would flatter you, I think. You tend to dress one size above where you ought.’

Will closed his laptop, turning in his chair to face him. Hannibal was smoothing out the strange velvety blanket that seemed to exclusively exist in hotels. ‘How about we have a little wager.’

Hannibal glanced over at him. ‘I’m listening.’

‘You find me a fancy suit,’ said Will, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, ‘and if I don’t hate it, you win. But if I do hate it, I get to put you in something, myself.’

‘Put me in something?’ Hannibal raised a brow. ‘That’s almost intentionally vague.’

‘You catch on fast.’

Hannibal made a considering noise. ‘I’ll take that bet. Though,’ he added, ‘it’s not really a bet. I’d be willing to try anything you suggest, you needn’t construct a reason for it.’

‘Nope, deal’s sealed. You’re playing by my rules now.’ Will got to his feet and helped straighten the bedspread. ‘A terrible fate.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in fate, Will.’

He drew Hannibal into a hug, his arms full of apology. ‘Maybe I do when I’m the one deciding it.’

* * *

Hannibal sat in the guest chair of the little office, the walls hung with cork boards and maps. There was nothing to personalize the place, since it served to house various agents from other regions, and, in this instance, the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

‘No,’ said Jack.

‘Agent Crawford, I respectfully request that you reconsider.’ Hannibal had one knee crossed over the other, his fingers laced together. He seemed perfectly at ease, and conveyed a sense of power in the room.

Jack didn’t like that one bit.

‘You can respectfully request all you want, Doctor Lecter, but I need Will in the field.’

‘And what good will it do for your staff psychologists to assess him?’ said Hannibal. ‘If they find him lacking in the appropriate faculties to continue in this work he’s doing for you—work which he has no real obligation to undertake, save for the dedication he has to abiding by his conscience—you’ll be worse off than you were at the start.’

‘He’ll pass,’ said Jack. ‘He’s solid.’

‘Not, perhaps, solid enough in laboratory conditions.’

Jack frowned. ‘I don’t think I understand you.’

‘Will has a great distrust of doctors, Agent Crawford,’ said Hannibal, ‘therapists especially. I’m lucky he puts up with me.’ Jack smiled a little, at that. ‘When Will feels threatened, he begins to lash out. He doesn’t mean to, of course, but cornering him will only urge him to bare his teeth.’

‘He’s not a wounded animal, Doctor, he’s a grown man with a job to do.’

‘We are all of us animals,’ Hannibal pointed out, ‘and my fiancé has been wounded by precisely the job he has _chosen_ to do. Or would have chosen, were he given the option.’

Jack gave him a stern look. ‘Are you here to defend his honor or offer solutions?’

‘I believe it’s possible to accomplish both.’ Hannibal uncrossed his legs, and sat forward in his chair, laced fingers against the edge of the desk. ‘We have made no formal announcement of our engagement. Doctor Bloom is a colleague of mine, and can attest to my character and suitability for the task. On paper, I would appear merely as a competent psychiatrist, assessing a special agent’s mental state, in the wake of fatality in the apprehension of a violent suspect.’

Jack leaned forward a little, too, mirroring Hannibal’s posture, showing him he knew the tricks. ‘And why would you want to do that?’

‘I’m concerned for him,’ said Hannibal, his expression open and earnest. ‘I saw how betrayed he felt when Alana was coerced into signing off on his return to the field.’

‘She wasn’t coerced,’ Jack corrected him. ‘These were unusual circumstances, and I needed someone who knew him best.’

‘ _I_ know him best, Agent Crawford,’ said Hannibal simply, sitting back in his chair again. ‘And I’m prepared to make certain it stays that way. He’s been distant, and barbed. This work wears on him terribly.’

‘So why do you want to keep him in it? I’m curious, Doctor, what’s in it for you?’

Hannibal seemed to consider this, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he said, ‘If you were to permit it, I could be his stability. When his own falters, I remain, and allow him to continue doing what needs to be done.’

Jack sat back, as well, looking thoughtful, a hand at his chin. ‘You understand that we need him.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re willing to put yourself out there like that? There’s a lot riding on this, Doctor Lecter, I hope you’re cognizant of that.’

‘I’m aware,’ said Hannibal. ‘More intimately than I would like, if truth be told. Will wants to do the right thing, but he often feels like his hands are tied.’

‘He has a unique gift,’ said Jack.

‘Then one must respect the individuality of his process. Put him in front of someone whose primary goal is to rattle him, wring out any deception or vulnerability, and our Will snaps shut like a trap. One must handle him gently, or not at all.’

‘You say that like he’s fragile, Doctor.’

‘Not fragile,’ said Hannibal. ‘ _Precious_.’

* * *

From an early age, Aisha Carby had been fascinated with crime.

They’d stop short in the middle of homework or chores or practicing cartwheels for competition, setting aside everything to listen to their dad’s newscast, taking notes in a Lisa Frank spiral-bound notebook with neon dolphins on the cover. They marked sections by folding stickers over the edge of pages, each with its own ongoing topic of interest: _Abduction (GA); Sex Scandal (DC); Murders (CA, Various)._ Their dads never worried too much about this because, all things considered, Aisha was a thoroughly well-adjusted child. It did raise some eyebrows, though, when the annual Christmas lists went out to their extended family, and Aisha had asked for Krav Maga classes ( _not_ karate, Aunt Dina!), real (working) handcuffs, and mace (the pink one). Nowadays, they funneled their passion into their studies at the Academy, and listened to true crime podcasts in their spare time.

Today was when they usually would have met with Professor Graham, but he was still away on the Shrike case. Aisha went to his office all the same, on autopilot, and saw that he’d stuck a folded-over note to the door. _Carby—changed the lock code, first letters of the sixth citation in your dis + your trophies in parallel bars. Crack it, get a surprise._

They got it after two attempts.

There were several quart-sized mason jars on Will’s desk, each filled with strata of dry ingredients, and a couple had small sealed tubes inside, as well, enough to hold a tablespoon or so. Hole-punched and tied to the lid of each with a bit of kitchen twine, there were recipe cards with thorough instructions, written in an elegant hand that definitely wasn’t Will’s. _Red Lentil & Barley, 10 minutes prep, 30 minutes idle. Rosemary Radiatore with Sundried Tomato, Roasted Enoki & Olive Oil, 5 minutes prep, 10 minutes idle. Apricot Coffee Cake with Vietnamese Cinnamon, 10 minutes prep, 1 hour idle._ And, because Will knew them, each card had nutrition information on the back, in that same slanting script. Everything was high in fiber, low in fat and sugar. Tailor-made.

Aisha texted Will. _Your fancy man some kind of ED recovery chef?_

 _Just a chef_ , Will replied a few minutes later, as Aisha was on their way out to their car, jars in the grocery tote that had been provided.

 _I pressed one of your flowers for you._ Aisha set their bag in the footwell of the passenger seat, and plugged their phone in. _They lasted a pretty long time, Dr Bloom's got a few hung on string in her office window to dry, we caught them before they started to droop._

_You didn't have to do that._

_Well, we did. Shame to let something so pretty go to waste. You good out there? Been hearing all kinda things._

_Wait for the lecture when I get back._

Aisha queued up the most recently-posted episode of a podcast, and started the drive back to their apartment. The murders being discussed that week were ones they'd heard of before, but didn't know much about; Aisha usually focused on American crimes, puzzling out the societal factors that laid the foundation for each offense. So the European ones were always an intriguing surprise—like walking into a familiar room, with someone else's furniture in it.

As this was a live show from the current tour, there were a lot of audience reactions to photos put up on the projector onstage, and Aisha would always check the Instagram feed when they finished one, to see what all the fuss (and joking) was about. While stopped at a light, they paused playback and made a note on their phone:

_Look up Eulalia Best and Il Mostro._

* * *

'He did _what_?'

The morgue was slightly chilly; they always were, but Will's temperature was all over the map today, and he didn't know whether to take his jacket off and get shivers, or leave it on and continue to sweat. Down at the far end, Jimmy and Zeller were having a spiritedly good-natured argument over something under the microscope; Beverly was frowning over a file, flipping back and forth between two sections.

Jack has his arms crossed, leaning up against the wall. 'You're in the clear, Will. Don't worry about it.'

Will's jaw was tense. 'He should have asked first.'

Jack shrugged. 'That's for you to work out with your man.'

'He's not my _man_.'

'He is your fiancé.'

'And I would have preferred if he'd stayed that way,' said Will, then realized how that sounded. 'I mean, just that. Only that. Look, I don't like mixing my personal life with work.'

'Nobody does,' said Jack. 'Not around here. But it seems like he's the best suited to look out for your interests.'

'I thought that was your job,' Will muttered. 'You're the one who wanted me in the field.'

'And I'd prefer if you stay that way,' said Jack. 'You and I know the Bureau's testing is sometimes a little… draconian, in how much it screens out.'

'For good reason,' Will pointed out.

'Best-laid plans.' Jack pushed off from the wall. 'Even people who pass start to exhibit symptoms they could ordinarily hide, even from our best efforts. Stress, gore. It cracks more people than we'd like to admit.'

Will's voice was wry, and a little strained with irritation. 'Could you see me cracking, Jack?'

'I could.' He smiled. 'But I don't.'

'We've found something,' said Beverly, waving them over.

'At first glance it looked like maybe a piece of down from the coat the victim was wearing when she was taken,' said Zeller.

'But it turns out,' said Jimmy, clearly pleased, 'it's not duck.'

'Or goose,' said Beverly.

Will had taken off his glasses so he wouldn't bump the lenses on the eyecup of the microscope, looking down at the slide below. 'So what is it?'

'Afterfeather from a starling,' said Jimmy. 'Highly communicative birds. They can recognize each other by their individual calls, and borrow sounds from their surroundings to make each call unique, even mimicking human speech.'

'Technically, starlings are an invasive species,' said Zeller, 'purposely introduced to the States in the 1890s, which has been widely regarded as a bad move.'

Jack had a look at the slide when Will stepped back. 'There are plenty of starlings in Minnesota. Could be nothing.'

'Or everything,' said Jimmy.

'Male starlings invade the nests of other birds,' Beverly explained. 'They toss the place, stab holes in any eggs they find, and eat their young.' She turned to Will. 'You were saying that you didn't think the girl in the field was really the Shrike's.'

'And the afterfeather wasn't debris.' Zeller pointed at the body on the table with his pen. 'Tucked under the lower eyelid.'

'So it was deliberately placed,' said Will.

Beverly nodded. 'Looks like it.'

'Someone invaded the Shrike's nest,' said Will, quietly. 'Someone who felt threatened. This has less to do with the victim and more to do with who would eventually _see_ her. It was an act of dominance against someone he considers to be competition.'

Jack frowned. 'If he's trying to prove himself superior, why copy the Shrike's methods at all? Why not show him up with something better?'

'It's derision,' said Will, closing his eyes and exhaling a long breath through his nose. 'Mocking Garrett Jacob Hobbs, mocking his choice of victims, the perfection Hobbs believed they had. This killer doesn't think he needs to prove himself, he's reasserting his position of absolute power. A monster capable of destroying his own kind, mimicking them so precisely, and yet improving upon the theatricality of their display. He doesn't want to be the original, he wants to overwhelm it, _obliterate_ it.'

Jack gave him a penetrating look. 'What are you thinking, Will?'

Will took a small bottle of aspirin out of his pocket and shook out two pills, knocking them back. 'I think it's the Ripper.'

'Can't be,' said Zeller. 'We're too far afield.'

'Evidently,' said Will, turning to leave, 'not far enough.'

* * *

**_Eulalia Best_ **

_From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia_

**_Eulalia Best_ ** _(born **Robert Aten Howe** ; 16 October 1917 – 1 October 1973) was a Welsh author of historical detective fiction and noir. She wrote under multiple pseudonyms, including **Howard Attenborough** , **Bobby Rhys-Price** , **Aten Roberts,** and **Lia Davies**. Best was murdered at the age of fifty-five while on a book tour in Paris._

Aisha skimmed around the early life section—born in Swansea to a sailor's widow, youngest of five siblings, educated at Cambridge—but it wasn't holding their attention. Certain comments from the latter half of podcast kept popping into their head, and though Aisha knew this would lead down a rabbit hole of a different kind (since the case in question had never been satisfactorily solved), they opened a new tab to check Instagram for photos from the live show. To see Il Mostro's face.

The black-and-white photo seemed to be shot just slightly from below, either that or the young man had a cocky tilt to his chin. There was a sort of simmering defiance in his expression, if you knew how to look at it. Perfectly smooth brow, neutral mouth position, but his eyes bored into you. Challenging. Daring you to do something.

He'd only been considered as a suspect, of course—considered by the now-disgraced lead investigator, while another man was eventually convicted. But there was reason to believe, though the man who was pinned with these crimes did have violent priors to which he'd confessed, that the story didn't end there.

Aisha stared at him for a long time, phone on its stand as they ate a child-sized serving of red lentils and barley.

His broad, high cheekbones and square jaw gave the illusion that his eyes were closer-set than they actually were. Narrow tie-knot that suited neither his face nor the broadness of his collar points; then again that was the look back then, wasn't it? But something felt off.

Something felt, if Aisha was being honest, a little familiar.

But that happened from time to time, didn't it? You saw a photo on a true crime blog, the dust jacket of a book or whatever, and that face became part of your inner understanding of all possible faces. Someone glimpsed only once could appear in your dreams, years after the fact. It was probably nothing.

Two hours later, lying in bed unable to sleep, they opened the photo again, holding their phone above them in the dark. They fed it into an app to colorize it, taking guesses at his hair and eye color until something seemed to fit. Knowledge prodded at the back of Aisha's mind, but they couldn't quite reach.

They knew him from somewhere, they were sure of it. Maybe they'd ask around tomorrow, Tim from Particulates lab had an eye for faces. Before leaning to reach the too-short charger cable on the nightstand, Aisha sent the colorized photo to their girlfriend Miriam, asking if she recognized it.

Couldn't hurt, right?

* * *

Will slung his bag from his shoulder and onto one of the chairs, sitting down in the other one. 'Body's going to be transported,' he said, untying his shoes. 'There's a flight out in the morning.'

Hannibal had only just returned to their room, himself, and had been in the midst of unpacking ingredients for dinner. He put things back into the brown paper bag, and turned to look at Will. 'Shall we go out tonight?'

'You've clearly got stuff to cook with.' Will sat back in his chair. 'Convince me this is a good idea.'

Hannibal was taking things out of the mini fridge, now. 'We can take this to a women's shelter on the way, I passed one this morning when I went into the city.'

Will's voice was deceptively casual. 'On your way to bend Jack's ear?'

Hannibal hummed a little, and he didn't look sheepish, exactly, but it was close. 'You caught me.'

'Had to have known I _would_ , Hannibal.'

'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'

'How does it seem now?' Will got up and took his suitcase out of the closet, and started to pack.

'It seems like I ought to have asked you, first. However,' he paused, 'I couldn't abide the idea of someone wandering the halls of your mind against your will.'

'Probably for the best,' said Will, getting clothes out of his drawer. 'The halls are packed as it is.'

Hannibal watched him for a moment, then said, 'Can you forgive me?'

Will had his back to him, and sighed. 'I don't need to forgive you, you were looking out for me.'

'Sometimes protectiveness is unwelcome,' Hannibal noted. 'It can read as condescension.'

'I like knowing someone has my back.' Will straightened up and went over to him, three steps across the little room. 'I like that it's you. What I don't like,' he was smiling a bit, but it was the self-conscious, defensive sort of smile that came so readily over the past week, 'is the fact that now I'm dating my therapist.'

'In name only.'

'Names mean something.' Will kissed him briefly. 'Don't tell them anything I wouldn't.'

'That was the plan.'

'So,' said Will, returning to his task, 'unless you've got a hankering for Culver's, I don't know where we could get a last-minute table on Friday night.'

'I have a standing invitation,' said Hannibal.

'From whom?'

'A fellow chef.' Hannibal went to select his suit for the evening. 'We knew each other in Paris, where she trained.'

'You seem to know somebody everywhere you fetch up.'

Hannibal took a burgundy suit from the closet. 'There was I time when I had nothing and no one; I've made it a priority to never feel alone.'

'What's the dress code for this place, anyway? Fine dining, I assume.'

Hannibal inclined his head. 'I took the liberty of packing your dark blue suit, and an appropriate tie.'

Will chuckled. 'Been hiding it in the back of the closet?'

'More or less.'

'How long were you planning this?'

'I wasn't.' Hannibal smiled. 'Simply a whim. You'll find I'm often governed by them.'

 _'You_ , whimsical? Please.' Will shook his head. 'You're getting a jump on dressing me how you want, I see.'

'You bought it,' said Hannibal.

'You brought it.' Will began to change out of his work clothes. 'Sneaky.'

'Do you object to sneakiness, Will?'

Will was mid-way through unbuttoning his shirt, and took Hannibal's hand in his, guiding him to finish the job. 'Not under the right circumstances.' He kissed him again, a little longer this time. 'Sorry about this morning.'

'There's nothing to apologize about.' Hannibal tugged Will's shirttails free.

'I was snappish.'

'I find your irritation to be entirely justified.'

Will smirked. 'So I can just be rude whenever I want?'

'I seem to recall us agreeing that we could say whatever we feel like,' said Hannibal. His voice was low, and he pushed Will's shirt from his shoulders, smoothing his hands along Will's arms.

'And what do you feel like saying?'

A short while later, dressed and with color in their cheeks, they drove across town.

'You know,' said Will. He was looking out of the window at the sunset reflecting from the surface of a lake, geese in flight overhead. 'This is our first date.'

Hannibal slid a hand over his. 'I'm glad you said yes.'

And Will was, too.


End file.
